In the Days of the Dragon
by InfiniteFandom17
Summary: After the defeat of Alduin, Miraak and Lord Harkon, orphans of the war are fostered by the Dovahkiin to become the next generation of Skyrim's champions. They are the Children of the Dragon, and from among their august ranks rises the brightest star among them: Breanna the Brave. This is her story.
1. PART 1: HERO WORSHIP

_In the Days of the Dragon, in the time after the Last Dragonborn vanquished Alduin, World-Eater, Miraak the First Dragonborn, and the King of Blood, Harkon Volkihar, a rare peace settled over the troubled land of Skyrim._

 _Those scars created by the war between the Dragon and the Bear filled the graveyards of Skyrim with so many, heroes on both sides, though the tales of their valor and sacrifice were often lost along with their names. Orphaned children, silent victims of a conflict not of their choosing, became a common sight on the streets of towns and cities of the land. Some were lucky enough to find their way into the handful of orphanages, but others were left cold and alone to fend for themselves._

 _But then, the Last Dragonborn, Thane of the Nine Holds, used the wealth of two-score or more Dragon hoards to gather these children to together into the manors and holdings that were the reward for Thanedom. There, these children were provided for as though born to a Jarl. More than mere food and shelter, the Dragonborn saw to their education and training with sword and spell. They learned letters in the tongues of elves and men and the beast races. They learned of kings and their ancient follies, and of the Divines. The Children of the Dragon they were called in that time, and they would grow to join the ranks of Skyrim's greatest heroes. Their names echo down to us throughout the ages: Lucia the Lioness. Sofie the Wise. Runa the Shield-Maiden. An accounting of their great deeds would take all the singers of the Bard's College a full turning of the moon to recite._

 _And yet, even in such august company, one star among them burns brightest. The child of night, daughter of silver mists, born beneath twin red moons, she grew from her humble roots to take her place in the heart of Skyrim herself._

 _Breanna the Brave._

PART 1: HERO WORSHIP

"And the fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph's shout," Breanna sang to herself as she swept the floor. She hummed the next few bars, not because she didn't know the words – all proper folk in Skyrim knew the words to _that_ song – but because she just liked hearing the tune. There was a _rightness_ to it that captured her imagination, filling her head with thoughts of adventure and glory. Breanna looked through the window of their one-room cottage to make sure no one had heard that. Mother didn't like it when she sang that one. Then again, Mother didn't like anything strange or out of the ordinary.

"That Dragonborn is no hero," Mother would say, pointing at her. "If you had heard what I've heard, you'd never sing tha' song again. Dragons are no friend ta' god-fearing people, child, nor is a man with th' soul of a dragon. He's a force of nature, like th' wind or storm, best avoided until he passes by."

Breanna always took exception to that. For being such a universally acknowledged savior of Tamriel, it seemed that no one would admit to knowing much about him. Or, even if 'he' was a he at all. Some said the Dovahkiin came with the Khajit caravans from Elsweyr, others that he was a masterful archer with the blood of old Valenwood. The old drunk, Sigurd, insisted that the Dragonborn was a Nord, of course. "Who else would Talos Stormcrown be reborn as, eh? A pointy-eared elf? Ha!" he would say between long draughts of honeyed mead.

 _Oh yeah, well what about Bretons?_ She never asked the big Nord that for fear of what he might say or that she might give herself away as being of the blood of High Rock. She was proud of her heritage, of being different, even if she had no memories of her birth province. Skyrim has always been her home, since Mother and Father had taken her in at age three. With her brown hair and light blue eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw, she could pass easily enough as a Nord when she needed to. This helped when she played with the children from the other farms. Sometimes being in different in Skyrim was not a good thing.

Breanna leaned her broom in the corner of the room and stood at the window. The view of the mountains in the distance was stunning, those great monoliths of grey stone with shawls of mist wrapped around their slopes. In her mind, she flew with the wings of an eagle among those lofty peaks, her soul free to soar. Mother didn't like her daydreaming other. "There's always work ta' be done, an' it won't be done by starin' at the sky."

What a life the adventurer must have! And the greatest of all was the Dragonborn. Ah, to roam the hills and valleys of the Skyrim, defending the helpless, to feel her shoulders clad in steel and feel the thunder of a warhorse's hooves as she charged into battle, now that must be the way she was meant to live! To bring honor to her name and assure her place in Sovngarde, where lord and beggar alike would drink from golden cups in the company of the heroes of old…just the thought of it filled her with rapture. She could taste it at times, and it was made all the worse for the manor house just up the hill from her farm, so close but so far away.

In the space where the rocky plains of Whiterun began to give ground to snow-capped hills of the Pale sat Heljarchen Hall, and its owner was the very embodiment of courage and valor made flesh. Father had once taken his grain up that way to borrow their mill when his own had broken. Breanna had begged him to come along, but he had steadfastly refused her every plea. Even tears had not moved him.

One night when she was seven, a dragon had attacked the manor. Roars had shattered the night as the sleek form wheeled through the sky overhead. At first, she had thought it was a sudden summer storm filled with thunder and dry lightning, but the strange keening wail of the dragon's breath told the tale. Before anyone could stop her, Breanna had slipped out into the night and ran to the old mammoth boneyard as fast she could. She had a habit of doing that, much to Mother's lament. Breanna just wasn't afraid of things the way other people seemed to be. Curiosity was at her core, and that night, when it was over, she saw the manor house from afar, bathed in firelight, though surrounded by a swirling mist. Streamers of purple and pink and blue had danced and entwined like snakes within its depths.

And then a figured appeared there, barely visible, armored and mighty, and she knew that she beheld the Savior of all Tamriel. She might have run closer if Mother's frantic cries for her had not called her back. Mother had made her cut her own switch after that, and sitting down was painful for days.

"Don't ever go down there," Father had told her. "There's nothing up there for you but trouble. Promise me, now." Breanna had been so angry at him at first, until she realized something profound: Father was _scared_. Him – a strapping Nord who had once served with distinction in the Legion, actually _afraid_. He had brushed her hair back so gently and made her promise never to go up there. She had agreed, bound now in bands of honor.

Mother didn't let her go wandering at the foot of the mountain, or within the woods. Trapped now like a bird in a cage, the times when she felt free where when Kjoll the bard would come around. He and Father knew each other in the war. Kjoll knew of her pride in her Breton blood. "There are some who think that Tiber Septim was neither Atmoran nor Nord but a Breton who came to Skyrim when he was young. Sound like anyone you know?"

Such was tantamount heresy for most Nords, who thought of Talos as being quintessentially their own. Talos _defined_ Skyrim in many ways, and Kjoll told her that the very thought that he was not one of them was antithetical. She had to ask him what that word meant, but wholly agreed with him once he had explained it.

"Have you ever met the Dragonborn?" she had asked him during one of his visits, his handsome face lit face by the orange glow of their stone hearth.

"I have," he had replied. "During the War."

That's all he would ever say, and no amount of pleading would get him to say any more. He was just as obstinate as Father on that point. And though Mother tried her best to erase any notion of hero worship from her daughter, it had almost the opposite effect. She had fashioned a sword of wood out of a fence plank and made a makeshift sheath and sword belt. In those times when she did slip away, she would take swings at imaginary skeletons and brigands, dodging behind trees and laughing out loud. The whistling sound as it cut through the air was music to her heart.

Just then, Breanna turned from the window and looked towards the place in the corner where she had 'Trollslayer' hidden. A sudden longing to belt on her sword and go adventuring filled her. With one more look out the window, she padded across the room, careful of the creaky floorboards, to her cache. Breanna slipped the belt around her skinny waist, looped it two-and-a-half times, and secured it the end in a knot the way soldiers did. She then hiked up the sides of her long skirt and tucked them into her belt so that she could run more easily.

The door creaked open and she slipped out onto the porch, canny of looking in every direction. Father didn't seem to mind her wanderings as much, but Mother would stop them cold from the start if she had her way. Breanna scanned the distance. Father was at the far edge of the leek field, but his back was to her. The sound of grinding, turning stone told her that mother sat the mill among sheaves of golden wheat.

 _Perfect._

Breanna cut through the dual rows of apple trees which butted up against the back fence. Past that lay the top of the hill, and the thrill of freedom. In a flash she had vaulted the wooden planks and darted into the copse of woods that sat towards of the mountain. She was prohibited from going to the manor house directly…but, that didn't means she couldn't skirt around the periphery and see what she could see. A mischievous smile grew on her face. Perhaps she could climb a tree high enough to get a good look, maybe even a glimpse at _you-know-who_.

She cast her eyes to south. In the far distance she could see the outline of Dragonreach perched upon its stony hill, its heights glistening in the day's bright sun. She imagined the fancy ladies and lords at the court there, going about their business, feasting and dancing, listening to bard poetry and music that echoed through that vaulted hall. The Dragonborn had once been there, following those long steps to the golden hall at the summit.

Turning north, she headed to the boneyard, snow crunching beneath her feet despite the warmth of the sun overhead. Down the hill she went to mammoth graveyard, which set in a natural cul-de-sac of grey stone. Poachers had long ago stripped the tusks from the gigantic skulls strewn around the place, but here and there were still tribal murals from the time when Giants had made this their home. They had built great bonefires here, and sat in quiet contemplation beneath the light of countless auroras. Here, Breanna could _feel_ the layers of history here. The years hung heavy about it.

It also had a wonderful place to look down on the stone shelf upon which Heljarchen Hall itself sat. She crouched behind the lip of the rocks, peering around the side. There it stood. The entryway was nearly as big as their whole farmhouse! Stout timbers with masterful scrollwork formed its bones, while white plaster filled in the walls. Pale amber shingles lined the roof, which itself had carved horse and dragon heads at their apex. It might as well have been a Jarl's longhouse, and a magnificent one at that.

She knew it was silly, but seeing the Hall made her feel close to the Dragonborn somehow, even though she didn't even know what race he was, or where he came from. What would it be like to share a hall with him, to drink mead from the same barrel, to eat venison from the same deer? What was he like? She imagined that he was kind, not the cruel force of nature as Mother had suggested.

Breanna crept from her hiding place, moving amongst the hillside down to a spike of stone near a trio of pine trees. Now she commanded an even better view of the hall. Her skin tingled with the thrill. She had never been this close before and her heart hammered in her chest.

Just then the front doors of the Hall opened, and Breanna faded back behind the rock. The man who descended the steps was perhaps the most muscular that Breanna had ever seen. His arms were bare, thick as tree trunks, and he wore a steel breastplate and greaves. On his head, he wore an iron helmet in the style of the Nords, with the downturned horns sprouting from each side. The hilt of a great sword sprang from behind his right shoulder.

Her breath caught in her throat. Could…could that be _him_? He was taller even than father, a wall of muscle and steel, projecting an aura of power and intimidating in the extreme. She could see little of his features beneath his helmet, not the color of his hair, nor the shape of his face. He did have the coloring of a dark beard on his jaw, but that was all she could make out at the distance.

She watched as the man went to the stable and saddled a spotted black and white stallion. _Surely he has servants for that kind of thing_ , Breanna thought. _Then again, perhaps he prefers to do it himself_. A lord, but not a lord. Her heart glowed at the thought like an ember. The man mounted his horse and settled into the saddle as though born to ride. Suddenly, his helmeted head turned and looked in her direction. It wasn't fear of the man that made her duck back behind the rocks fully so much as the thought that she probably shouldn't be here. If he were the Dragonborn, he might not appreciate being spied on by a common farm girl. From her hiding place, she heard the sound of galloping hooves fade into the distance. She looked again and saw the man riding north, further into the Pale.

And that is when she spied the book, half submerged in the slush of snow and ice in the shadows of her hiding place, near the base of a pine tree. The cover carried the device of a dragon's head in profile rendered in brass with a red stone in the eye. The flash of crimson had been what had caught her eye. She pulled it free and brushed the ice and mud off of it. Breanna took it back to the bone circle up the hill, and placed it on a flat stone. There, she opened the clasp and peered at the contents within.

The handwriting within was strong and flowing, and every few pages there were diagrams of tombs or statues, even maps with comments annotated in the margins. She flipped through it, and one section caught her eye, labeled: THE EBONY WARRIOR. 

_He is dead now, and my heart breaks. I have honored his request and taken his arms and armor for myself, and burned his body upon the pyre while I recited the litany of the Ebonarm. I did not wish his life. I sat up until late with him that final night, hearing the tales of his valor. By his prior deeds alone Sovngarde should be his right, even if his blood is of the Alik'r._

 _But I could not convince him to stay. He insisted on the duel, and even as I struck the killing blow, I saw the relief in his eyes through his visor. I told him that Skyrim could use him, that he could pass on his peerless martial skills to others who would use them with honor. His course was finished, he told me. Nothing was left for him but death. I understand my destiny, my place in Mundus, but at times I grow tired of being the instrument of death. Rest well, Great One, may we meet again in the golden halls of…_

Breanna's eyes grew wide at those words. She flipped more pages to another heading, entitled: THE JAGGED CROWN.

 _I held it in my hand, and temptation followed. After all this time, the dragons have returned and here I with a crown made of dragon bone in my hand, the very symbol of Skyrim's sovereignty. Can that just be a coincidence? In this pointless, divisive war, perhaps I am the one meant to wear it, to bring peace, and deny Alduin his endless banquet of souls._

 _But is that my fate? To rule? I have the Voice, greater than any other mortal, even Ulfric. If that is his claim to kingship, then where do I fall in that thinking? But could I even serve Skyrim fairly as its ruler? Or is it more imperative that I travel through the…_

Breanna took a deep breath. It was his journal! Here, in this book, she was privy to the innermost thoughts of the Dovahkiin himself! Her hands trembled as she scanned through the accounts, seeing only bits and pieces of what the book contained.

 _\- I must permanently sanctify or disenchant the altar down the hill from Lakeview. It seems to continually attract necromancers._

 _\- Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, a better kisser than I would have expected._

 _\- Should I pity the Falmer? Should I attempt to contain them rather than eradicate them?_

 _\- It seems that Talos 'mantled' his godhood. Am I, by my very nature, mantling Talos unintentionally? I must research this further._

 _\- When did Miraak turn? Was he always corrupt, or did he become that way over time? What role did Mora play in his descent?_

 _\- I've healed those on death's very door, but that one guard's injury still defies all treatment._

Finally, Breanna found a section called: WHO AM I?

 _Was it blood or fate that made me who I am, or was it both? I look though the ancient texts and I can only wonder. Am I Tiber Septim reborn? Am I the Shezzarine? Am I an avatar of Shor? Was that why his throne was empty when I entered Sovngarde? If so, why did Tsun not recognize me?_

 _And if I am the long successor to Lorkhan, what of my dragon blood? That is of Akatosh, from the line of Anu. Am I the one in which the two cycles coincide, as others have been before me? Or am I merely a mortal with the soul of a dragon, nothing more or less._

 _Who am I?_

Breanna closed the book, and felt the sting of shame. This was not meant for her eyes. This wasn't just a journal, a list of his triumphs and accolades; it was the Dragonborn's diary, containing his doubts and concerns, dreams and regrets. By reading it, it felt like a betrayal of the one figure in her life which served to life her up.

She dare not take it to the Hall itself, as it might look as though she had stolen it. And it appeared that the Dragonborn was no longer there, if that had been him. Instead, she tucked it under her arm and turned her steps to the south and home, back up the hill. A devious thought occurred to her as she walked in the tree line, which mixed with her guilt in a strange elixir. Once Father knew what she had, he would take it back to the Hall.

But…

If she played her cards right, he might want to teach her a lesson and have her apologize in person, which meant that he would have to take her with him. If she just said the right thing at the right time, it might just work out…

Breana paused in that thought as a coal-black raven cawed from a nearby tree. She had been about to vault over the fence, but now she froze in place. Something wasn't right, and her mind worked on what was out of place. For one, Father was no longer among the leeks, even though he swore that he would tear up all the weeds by day's end. Second, she could no longer hear the grinding of their millstone. The silence rang in her ears until the raven cawed again.

She had planned to sneak back into the house as it was, but now…now she had to see what was going on. Breanna made her way around to the stall where Old Sven, their mighty plow ox, lived. It commanded a view of the other side of the farmhouse. The animal looked up from chewing his hay and snorted softly at her. With infinite slowness, she put the book down and peeked over the worn wooden rail. She heard a voice she didn't recognize.

"So, you thought you could hide from us, did you, turncoat?" a man said in a brutish Nord accent. The man himself wore boiled leather armor and carried a jagged sword made of a strange green metal. He was not alone. Five others in similar dress stood in a circle. Father and Mother were on their knees in the middle of that circle with their hands behind their backs.

"What's he talking about, Olaf?" Mother asked Father. "Who are these…people?" Breanna knew she had been about to saw 'ruffians' or 'brigands' or something else, but had thought better of it.

"Old friends of your husband," the lead man said. "From back in the War. Isn't that right, _Olaf_?" He said with particular emphasis on Father's name.

"I chose my side, Varingar," Father said. "I make no apologies, least not to the likes of you."

The bad man laughed, and Breanna did not like the sound of it, not one bit. "Ho! Ho! You did choose a side. _Twice!_ Did you think that that just because you ran away that we would not find you? Talos has made me his instrument, to punish cowardice from those who turned their back on him, and sided with those gold-skinned abominations. So, are you prepared for the death you've earned, Kasmojan?"

Father spit in the dirt at his feet. "I am a Nord. I'll not beg for my life. If you must spill my blood, do so, but spare my wife. She's innocent in all of this. For the bond we once shared, Varingar, I ask only this of you. Please."

Breanna reached over the stall's rail and felt around. Her hand closed around a solid oak haft. Father always kept a steel war axe outside in case he was surprised. They must have overpowered him quickly. She slid it free, careful not to let the steel head reflect the sunlight in their direction.

"Talos is merciless, traitor," Varingar replied, but looked upon Mother. "She's shared your bed, and is therefore unclean. I'll kill her second, so you don't have to watch. Cold comfort I know, but I'll grant you that at least, for old time's sake."

The man withdrew his strange sword and a glint of red light gleamed down its length. The leers of the others in the circle seemed to grow, hungry for blood. At the sight of them, their intent clear upon their faces, something shifted in Breanna's mind. The man raised his sword to the sky, but Breanna was already in motion. Her light steps over the soft ground muffled her approach, and instinctively angled her approach to minimize the sight lines of the others in the circle. She was behind Varingar in an instant and brought the axe across the back of the man's knee, just where the armor was weakest. She might have been young, but farming made her stronger than she looked, and Father kept the axe sharp enough to shave with.

The man collapsed with a cry of pain, but it was cut short as Breanna brought the axe down in arc, burying it deep in the man's skull. He fell in a red heap at her feet as she wrenched the axe free. The man's death had been so sudden, so unexpected, that the others in the circle were stunned. And then Father was on his feet, tripping one and planting his shoulder into another.

Breanna turned on her heel and threw the axe towards Old Sven's stall. It whistled through the air and cleaved the bar that held him in, quivering deep in the wood. She called to him and the big ox burst from his stall, smelling blood, and charging at the outsiders. The animal bowled over two of the others, goring one and trampling the other with hooves, nearly hard as stone.

In a blink, Father had slipped his hands over his feet and fought with a stolen sword. Breanna felt a surge of pride in him, until something shiny flashed before eyes and her nose and cheek exploded in pain. Breanna found herself on the ground, looking up at a woman with blue tattoos on her face, wielding a steel blade and wooden shield. Breanna couldn't breathe; something was pouring out of her nose.

The woman dropped to one knee and used her shield to pin Breanna to the ground, using her heavier weight to crush the little girl. The pain grew in Breanna's chest, but her cry of pain only seemed to embolden her attacker. "Time to die, little one," the woman said with a cruel grin.

Breanna reached up, with her free arm. There was no way she could match the grown woman for power, but the little girl's hand found the shape of a dagger. Pulling it free, Breanna plunged the sharp metal point through the woman's thigh with a strength born of desperation. The bandit screamed and the weight on Breanna's ribs vanished. Breanna rolled over coughing and gasping, throwing herself back into the dirt as the steel sword missed her head and cleaved into the ground.

Breanna hopped to her feet to face the foe, and drew 'Trollslayer.' The woman bellowed and raised her sword, eyes red with rage. The sword came down like a falling star and only a cast-off plank of wood was there to answer it. But the blow never fell. Something red and silver burst out of the woman's chest just then disappeared. The woman slumped down and Father stood behind her.

"By the Eight, are you all right?" Father asked, his wrists still bound with bowstrings. Breanna nodded and then retrieved the axe from the stall by wrenching it up and down repeatedly. Father had cut his own bonds and was busy cutting Mother's own bindings. They didn't notice her stalk over to the man whose pelvis had been shattered by Old Sven until she stood over him with the axe.

"Please!" the man cried out. "Help me! It wasn't my fault, please!"

Breanna's eyes narrowed. Her voice was the cold of the fjords in deep winter.

"Talos is merciless, traitor," she said, and opened his throat with the edge of the axe. There was a gurgling sound, and then nothing. Bloody and disheveled, her dress torn and now stained dark, Breanna turned towards her parents with the axe still in her hand.

Mother looked at her as though she were a stranger, and leaned into Father's embrace. Father himself was spattered red, but he seemed unconcerned with his own state.

"What did you do, Breanna?" he asked, in horror. "What did you do?"

The cold fire that had filled her veins left her, and Breann felt tired. The pain in her face and nose began to throb and hurt. Tears ran down her face.

"They were going to hurt you," she said, miserably. The sound of her words cut right into her own heart. "I had to do _something_."

Father took the axe from her and pulled her into a tight embrace. She cried into his shoulder for a time that might have been a minute, or an eternity.

That night, she had been exiled to outside the house while Mother and Father talked. She sat against the northwest corner, where a slight gap under the window's eaves allowed her to hear what they were saying.

"It your fault," Mother said to him with steel. "Yours and Kjoll's. Filling her head with all those stories of battles and glory, and now look at her. It took me two hours to get the blood out of her braids, never mind her dress! It's bad enough that that… _abomination_ has a house down close to us, but now…but now…" her voice trailed off.

"Now our little girl is a killer," she finally managed, and her voice caught.

"She probably saved both of our lives," Father countered, "and you must have very selective hearing if you think any story I've told from the War was about glory. Nothing about war is glorious. And while I have cause to fear the Dragonborn as much as any, I'll not have you speak like that of Talos reborn. It's an ill omen we cannot afford."

Breanna felt more than heard Mother's fuming. At length Mother spoke again, "What do we do now?"

"The only thing we can do; we bury the dead, and put this behind us." Breanna heard father get up and the floorboards creaked as he went to the door. Breanna hopped up and sprinted ten paces away, to make it looks as though she had kept a respectful distance.

Father came outside and called her over. She happily climbed into his arms.

"I just wanted to protect you and Mama," she said. "It's what the Dragonborn would do."

"I know," Father said. "But you're not the Dragonborn, are you? You're my daughter, and not even fully grown yet. While your mother would have me punish you, I will not. Perhaps you are not of my blood directly, but you acted like a true Nord today. I'll not forget it, Breanna. Now, try to put this out of your mind and go get some sleep. If you want to rest through the day tomorrow, I'll allow it, all right?"

"Yes, Father," Breanna said, slipping from his arms. She went inside and Mother was bent over the cooking pot in the hearth. Breanna went to her bed in the corner and slipped under the bearskin covers, feeling under her pillow for the book she had smuggled inside. With everything that had happened, she had thought twice about mentioning it.

Father stepped back in and locked the door. Mother didn't look at him either. He turned and looked in Breanna's direction, though his face was lost in shadow.

"Good night, sweet child," he said. "May the Divines watch over your sleep and guard against nightmares."

"Thank you, Father," she said back, but he didn't understand. Breanna had nightmares every night. But she did not fear them, for even in her darkest dreams she could shape them to her whim.

Nightmares were her plaything.


	2. PART 2: OF NIGHTMARES AND MADNESS

PART 2: OF NIGHTMARES AND MADNESS

In her dreams, Breanna walked in realms of darkness. Twisted beasts, themselves woven of darkest night, carried out all manner of unspeakable acts upon each other, and upon the wailing souls who screamed in torment. They didn't much bother her as she made her nightly trek through their territories, nor pay heed to her. It was as though she walked invisibly among them. On those rare occasions that the grotesque denizens confronted her, she dismissed them with a thought, secure in the knowledge that this was simply a dream. The horrors she witnessed were likewise dismissed as she walked through the gardens of torment, a spectator, unmoved and unafraid at what she saw there.

Once, during her wanderings, she had chanced upon a stone fortress, perched upon a rocky crag. The wind whistled through its dark and empty battlements like a banshee's wail, and the eaves seemed to endlessly drip blood. Curiosity pulled her toward its black gates, which stood open, with no guard to challenge her. The interior was just as foreboding. The cobblestones of the courtyard were made of skulls, and the walls were a mass of faces pressing outward, screaming silently. She felt a million eyes upon her, and cold, cold like deepest winter along the Sea of Ghosts. Breanna shivered, then willed herself to be warm and comfortable again, conjuring a woolen cloak out of nothingness and wrapping it around her shoulders.

She passed by ruined halls and torture chambers filled with metal implements and chains, past crumbling turrets that seemed to sway and writhe like tentacles, and through chambers and antechambers filled with cold-eyed statues. Up a living staircase made of flailing severed arms, she found a throne room, and a woman pacing there beneath a shaft of silver light. The woman was not like the others she found here. Not twisted or misshapen, she wore a suit of spiked armor that seemed lit from within with a blue glow, but only seemed to accentuate her hips and breasts. The strange woman's hair flowed down her back like white silk, and horns like that of a ram sprouted from her temples. When the woman turned, her face was visible, blue skin with white tattoos overlaid on it. Those eyes burned like sapphire torches, brighter even than her armor. She murmured to herself as she paced, and Breanna could not quite make out her words.

For long moments, Breanna stood there watching her pace, fascinated and wondering. After perhaps her ninth pace back and forth, not any different from the rest, the woman stopped dead in her tracks and turned her gaze towards where Breanna stood.

"Oh, hello," Breanna stepping forward. "You seemed busy. I did not mean to disturb you."

The woman tilted her head, regarding Breanna like saber cat.

"Mortal child," the woman said. Her voice sounded young and even pleasant. "You are foolish to come so deep into my domain. Few who stand in my presence count themselves lucky, come the dawn." She stepped forward and the very air around her seemed to run like candle wax. Breanna just looked at her with curiosity.

The woman stopped within arm's reach. Breanna could sense that she expected something but had no idea what it was. Those burning blue eyes narrowed. "Few can say that they have crossed my path without feeling the tug of their own mortality. I have burst the hearts of the bravest heroes with my merest glance. Souls have shriveled at my softest whisper. And yet you stand before me unafraid, as though a guest in my home."

Breanna raised an eyebrow. "But you're so pretty. I wish I would look like you when I grow up. Why would I be afraid of you?" The little girl willed her dark hair to go white and flow down to her waist, while growing horns out of her temples. She even mimicked the spiky armor. When her transformation was complete, she looked to the older woman for approval. "I really like the horns. I wish I could keep them when I wake up."

The woman's hands became claw-like at her sides, blue spheres of energy danced in her palms. Her beautiful face looked more like a snarling hound. "How…how did you do that? None may shape dreams in my realm except me!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Breanna said, returning to her normal self. She stepped forward and hugged the woman's waist. "I didn't mean anything by it. Will you forgive me?"

The armor woman's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. The lines of her face began to crack like ice. Her mouth crumbled inward, becoming worm-like with a hundred needle-like teeth jutting from her gums, and her both her eyes and armor turned a baleful red. The woman seized Breanna by her shoulders and forced her to look into the changing, demonic face.

"And does this face suit you, mortal? Find me fair and fetching now?" The young voice was gone, replaced by many voices at once, filled with dread harmonics. And yet, Breanna was unfazed.

"I like the other one better," she replied. "I hope you don't mind."

The woman laughed, and Breanna felt a tug at her mind. "Watch closely now."

Suddenly, it seemed that the veil of reality was torn away. The depraved and dark acts she had witnessed before were as shadows to the blasphemous realms that now burst open before eyes. She saw Mother and Father in unspeakable pain, subject to the most ghastly acts that were so foreign, so alien, that Breanna's mind reeled at the context. She felt dizzy more than anything else.

She stopped them, healed Mother and Father, then had the torturing entities shake hands, or pseudopods, or whatever they happen to have, and then brought out the sun to shine over the dead forest she found herself in. She added some yellow blooms to the gnarled husks, just for a touch of color.

"You…you…" the woman stammered. "No mortal could possibly reshape Quagmire while I stand here. Who are you? _What_ are you?"

"I'm Breanna," she answered. "Just a simple farm girl. Who are you?"

"Impossible!" the woman shouted. "You stand before Vaermina, the Dreamweaver, Lord of Nightmares, Daedric Prince of Dreams, Omens, and Memories."

"No you're not," Breanna said, disbelieving. "Vaermina's just a story made up to scare children. She's not real."

The red fire turned back to blue, just as the woman reverted forms to what Breanna had seen in the fortress.

"That's what they say about me? _Me?_ " The woman was incensed. "I feast upon fear, upon lust, upon cruelty. Nightly, the darkest corners of their souls are laid bare before me, and they dare slight me by non-belief?" The woman looked down at Breanna. "I assure you, mortal child, I am quite real, and you stand in my domain. How unfortunate for you." The woman extended a claw-like gauntlet to Breanna.

Breanna's stomach burst open and pale and red shapes, like snakes, flew out of her, twisting in knots with wet, squishy sounds. There was no pain, however, as Breanna was eviscerated, for again she knew she wasn't really here. It was just a dream.

"Gross," Breanna said and dismissed the image, returning to normal. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I meant no cheek or disrespect to you…um, my Lady." She was sure of the form of address, or even if the woman were indeed real, or if she somehow was who she said. "Won't you forgive me? I will be your friend, if you want."

If her unintentional blasphemy has surprised the blue-eyed woman, the Dreamweaver looked as though her tankard had started speaking to her.

"You wish to befriend…me?" There seemed genuine surprise in her voice. They were suddenly back in her throne room and the woman settled wearily into her chair of frozen blood. "Very well, I'll accept you, mortal, but you must pledge your soul to me, for all time."

"That doesn't sound like being a friend," Breanna replied. "How about I come visit you, and talk to you about things? You must get lonely here, and it seems like you don't have many friends."

"Fool, a Daedric Lord has need of no one, certainly not a mere—" Her voice trailed off and she fixed Breanna with a penetrating stare. "But you aren't 'merely' anything, are you? I've shown you visions that would shatter the heart of a saint, but you shrug them off as though a soft night's breeze. There is something strange about you, mortal, strange even to my eyes. What is your name?"

"Breanna," she told her. "Named after my grandmother, who lived on the shores of Illiac Bay, within sight of the Direnni Tower of Old."

"I see," the Dreamweaver replied and crossed her long legs. "Well, then. Come to me tomorrow night, Breanna of Old High Rock, this time as my guest. We shall talk of many things, you and I, and I will teach you strength and secrets that mortals where never meant to know. We shall see what limits, if any, your mind possesses."

"Oh, thank you, my Lady!" Breanna said, then looked down, embarrassed. "If it's not too much trouble, or won't make you mad…would you mind if I had horns like yours when I come to visit?"

Vaermina smiled, cruel but beautiful as the star-filled sky. "I would have it no other way."

The next few days passed just as any on the farm. No one mentioned the bad people who had come, or what happened. Father had buried the bodies, and now had a jingling purse of many gold Septims, not to mention the armor and gear that they had worn. It was the first real coin he had had since the War, he had told her. Next time he made the trip south to Whiterun, he would sell off their possessions. It might fetch enough to buy another cow, or at least a few more chickens so that they didn't have to trade eggs with the other nearby farms.

Those nights, she didn't have to be told to go to bed. Breanna would climb beneath the covers and close her eyes. When she opened them, she was in Quagmire, at the steps of the Dream Fortress. The red-and-black skinned Dremora began to know her by sight, and even became fond of her in their odd way. Those nights she would sit with Vaermina and they would talk. At times the Dreamweaver would appear as she had upon their first meeting, and others she took the form a beautiful woman in the robes of wizard, complete with the glowing magestaff.

Vaermina seemed to know everything, and even when she spoke of things Breanna had no way of understanding, it was enrapturing. She explained the thirteen names of the wind, and the whys and moods of the sky. She spoke, sometimes to herself, of the folly of creation and the doldrums of true immortality. She even explained, at Breanna's request, why she was known as a Daedric Prince rather than as a Daedric Princess. Breanna had no idea why someone so pretty would ever want to appear as a stupid, smelly boy, but Vaermina told her that it helped to change into whatever a dreamer was most afraid of. She was glad to know that Dreamweaver preferred being female, however.

Only occasionally would the Lady of Quagmire attempt to melt her eyes, or rip out her heart. Breanna would just laugh as she ignored it and set things to rights. It was like a joke between friends to punctuate their long sittings of conversation.

The secrets she spoke of seemed disjointed and weird. Often times after a long recounting of the Litany of Magnus, or the 1,001 shapes of the impossible, Vaermina would stop to gauge Breanna's reaction. When Breanna just sat there, eager to hear more, sometimes the Dreamweaver would seem surprised, saddened, or even angry at her, but Breanna always knew what to say to calm her down. Curling up in her lap seemed to work, or complimenting her current form. There was always something to admire about the way Vaermina shaped herself, even the times when she shifted into something gross or pulsating.

Two weeks passed, until one night Quagmire seemed different somehow. It was nightmarish in all its usual ways, but up seemed down, and at the same time sideways. Not since Vaermina had torn away the veil had things been so odd, only this had none of the maliciousness to it, indeed it seemed to have no reason at all to it. Once she stepped into the Dream Fortress, dimensions seemed to right themselves.

"Hello, Drazzkich'k," She said to the hulking armored figure as she approached the archway leading to the throne room. "Nice night, huh?"

"Indeed. I hear the ghosts-screams sing upon the howling shores. Music to my soul," he replied. "Go on in, she has a surprise for you."

When Breanna stepped into the throne room, Vaermina was not alone. Next to the throne stood a man, who looked nearly normal by comparison – tall, grey-haired, and distinguished as a lord. His clothes were richly embroidered but seemed oddly lopsided in color. His right lapel was bathed in lavender with gilded thread, while his left was dark, russet orange. His eyes seemed to have no color in the moonlight streaming through the window.

"Dear Breanna," Vaermina welcomed her. "We have a visitor tonight. I'd like you to meet him—"

The man interrupted her, stepping towards Breanna with wide arms. "Hey! Hey! That's fine, I think I know who I am well enough, thank you."

"The introduction is for the mortal," Vaermina corrected drily.

"Of course it is! Of course it is!" the man said in a bombastic voice, then placed a hand up to his bearded face, as though speaking conspiratorially. "Except when it isn't, if you take my meaning."

Breanna laughed. He was funny.

"This is Lord Sheogorath, Lord of the Shivering Isles, and the Daedric Prince of Madness," Vaermina told her.

"And CHEESE!" the old man added. He seemed very enthusiastic about the notion.

"There's a Daedric Prince of cheese?" Breanna asked.

"Well, there is now! Vaermina, my lass, I know now what my life's calling is. Can you imagine? It's been staring me in the face all these millennia. Have you ever just stared at cheese? Or is that just me?"

Vaermina seemed to ignore him. "Breanna, he's come to meet you. Though quite mad, Lord Sheogorath can see more clearly than others, even amongst the Princes. Perhaps he can determine why you are so special."

"Well, you're very handsome, my Lord," Breanna said to him with a curtsy, and the old man smiled broadly. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

"See now? Now there's a mortal who knows what respect tastes like. Perhaps we won't jump rope with your entrails, after all, my dear." He said to her, then added. "Er-not yet, anyway."

"I've tried," Vaermina said tartly. "It doesn't seem to work."

"Truly? Well, perhaps I can see what makes this fine young girl tick, then" He looked up to the corner of the room in thought. "Now, you're not a clock are you? That would simplify everything. _Tick, tick, tick_."

"No, my lord. I'm not a clock." Truth be told, she didn't know what a clock was, exactly, but she could be sure that she wasn't one.

"Pity, I had a clock once that told the future. Said he was tired of living in the now. He thought of it as a promotion. Good sort. Great singing voice. Now, let's see what we can see." The whites of his eyes yellowed, and the pupils became vertical like a cat as he knelt down in front of her.

"Should I do anything? Or just stand here?"

"Do a handstand if you like," Sheogorath replied. "That is, if you can _do_ a handstand. Or do nothing at all; I should have this in just a tick." He laughed again. " _Tick, tick, tick_."

A full minute went by. Breanna shifted her weight from side to side under the old man's gaze.

"Well?" Vaermina said from her throne. "What do you see?"

"HA!" the old man said, standing up and beginning to dance a short jig with remarkable grace. "Ha! I can't see anything! She's blank, like a slate…when it's blank, of course. I might mistake her for a regular mortal, but I'd be wrong. That I, of everyone I know, can't see what's so special is just…just…Madness! _HA!_ I love it!"

Suddenly he stopped, in mid-step, and smoothed his brocade. "It's almost like the more I want to know, the less there is for me to see. Fas-cin-nat-ing," he said, the last word in four distinct syllables. "Maybe not as a fascinating as a talking grapefruit, I'll admit – a funny one, that one. Style for miles, I tell you. But still, fascinating all the same, my little mortal. You're an enigma, wrapped in mystery mutton, with a light glaze of mammoth cheese on the top with all the sprinkly bits. Delicious!"

"Thank you, my Lord," Breanna said to him. _I think._

Sheogorath straightened and fiddled with the buttons on his doublet. "Now then, I can see by that look on her face that my time here is at an end. It was a pleasure to meet you, Breanna. You can be sure I won't forget you." Despite his antics, his voice turned dark on the way he said _you_. "But before I go, can I interest you in a malady of the mind? I'm running a special on phobias. They're in season this time of year, picked fresh every day. "

"Um, no thank you," Breanna answered. "But it is kind of you to offer, my Lord."

"It is, isn't it?" he said, more to himself. "Well, time for me to get back the Isles. Too-da-loo, now!"

He disappeared in a jagged aura of yawning, tortured mouths, and then Breanna was alone with the Dreamweaver. The Daedric Prince sat on her throne, legs crossed, idly flexing her hanging foot up and down.

"I like him," Breanna said, breaking the silence. "He must _really_ like cheese."

"Indeed," Vaermina said. "He's authored two thousand one hundred and thirty-eight books on the subject, but writes them backwards and upside down, so mortals must stand on their heads while looking into a mirror."

"So, he wasn't kidding about the handstand, then," she said. "Will he be visiting more often?"

"No," Vaermina said, and her voice rumbled through the room like thunder. "And sadly, neither will you."

"What do you mean?"

Vaermina gripped the rests of her blood throne and leaned forward. "It means that our nighttime conversations are at an end. I cannot dominate your soul, nor even evoke the slightest fear in you. Even Lord Sheogorath cannot not divine why you are this way. If he cannot see into the truth of you, then you are unknowable."

Vaermina got up and walked towards Breanna. The claws on her metal gauntlets curled around Breanna's shoulders. "I had thought to destroy you here, in my dream realm. I cannot. My instinct is to slay you and your family in Mundus. A vision from me and a legion of my followers would spill your blood with praises to me on their lips. But…"

The Dreamweaver pulled Breanna in close to her, where her sapphire eyes burned before the girl's face. "But I will not. Fear is my elixir, sweeter than any wine. Though I cannot drink from you, little one, a mortal untouched by fear may one day grow to strike fear into the hearts of others. So _many_ others. I will feast upon them." Her blue eyes flashed into firebrands. "How sweet a gift you will give me, Breanna of Old High Rock."

"I'll miss you," Breanna said, throwing her arms around the woman's shoulders. "But I understand. I have enjoyed our time together, even when you try to pull my guts out."

"And that is perhaps the strangest part," Vaermina answered. "I have enjoyed your company as well, when I should not. Mortals have been my playthings for eons, but you alone give me pause. And because of my fondness for you, I give you a gift."

Through her contact with the Prince, Breanna felt power enter her body, crackling along her skin and hair. Only for a moment, and then it was gone.

"I give to you the Dreamstride, that you may pass through realm of dreams to emerge into Mundus where you see fit. And if a woman who knows no fear, who can go where she will, does not terrify the world of men, I know not what can. Farewell now, for it is unlikely that we shall ever meet again."

"Good-bye," Breanna said, and unshed tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. "I'll always remember you."

At this, Vaermina smiled.

"Sweet dreams."

And from that night on, Breanna rarely had nightmares. Most nights she found herself in rolling green pastures, bathing in crystal streams in the cool shadows of majestic oaks and pines. Even in those times when the nightmares came, they were mere shadows of what the Dreamweaver had shown her.

And every once in a while, when the shallow darkness came, Breanna thought she spied a sapphire glow following her from somewhere just out of sight, and a lilting laugh like a silver bell being rung at midnight.


	3. PART 3: THE DRAGON'S HEART

[Author's note: So far I've been very vague about the particulars of Skyrim's lore after the main quest line. Stuff like: Who won the civil war? Who the Dragonborn is specifically, the Paarthurnax choice, etc. I will start to fill in those gaps for this continuity, starting with this part. For those who would prefer that the Dovahkiin stay a semi-anonymous figure (to accommodate your own interpretation of the Dragonborn) please stay with me. I have a little sugar in mind for later parts that will accommodate you on that point. As always, thanks for reading! ~SP]

PART III: THE DRAGON'S HEART

The rider came just as the morning mists receded from the edges of the farm. The sound of steel-shod hooves first caught Breanna's attention, causing her to set down her peeling knife from her pile of potatoes and go to the window. Mother came away from the hearth and joined her. Father was outside at the mill. He had taken to wearing his old Imperial gladius at his hip, and Breanna saw the way he turned towards the rider with his left hand resting on the pommel.

Of the rider, Breanna could tell little from where she huddled. Astride a coal black warhorse – perhaps the most beautiful piece of horseflesh Breanna had ever laid eyes on – the armored figure sat upright and proud in the saddle. She, for the shape of the breastplate told the tale, was encased from head to toe in shiny black armor. With the dark visor down, the woman looked like a war goddess, as unstoppable as she was inscrutable. The only bit of color about her came from the battleaxe across her back, which seemed made of a bronze metal with a graceful blade made of green crystal.

Father stepped out from the mill and the black knight steered her horse towards him. Breanna strained her ears to hear what they said.

"What can I do for you?" Father said, seizing the horse's bit straps. The massive horse snorted at him, in warning, but Father did not move. Breanna saw his intent; he was already within her arc if she chose to draw her axe. Whether his blade could hope to pierce those black plates was another matter, however.

"This is the Sorenson farm?" the rider said, voice as clear and calm as a pond.

"It is, friend." Father always liked saying _friend_ , until someone proved themselves otherwise.

"I come on behalf of the Dragonborn," she said. "Is there somewhere we can speak?"

Breanna saw Father's stance draw taut as a drum. "The Dragonborn? What has that to do with any of us? We're just simple farmers here."

"Something was lost, something dear," the rider said. "My Thane believes it could be here."

Breanna gulped, not out of fear, but out of the possibility of getting her parents in trouble. She looked at the corner of the room that was hers. _The book_ , she thought. In all the strange things that had happened in her dreams lately, she had never brought up to her parents. It remained hidden under bed, along with her wooden sword, 'Trollslayer'.

The rider dismounted with easy grace. She was taller than Father by almost half a hand. She reached up and removed her helmet, revealing a strong Nordic face framed by dark hair. The woman was beautiful, though her patrician nose and tight lips gave her an air of cool seriousness that Breanna could feel even from far away. There was a strength to her bearing that was arresting, however; Breanna could only hoped she looked like that when she was older.

"I know you," Father said. "You're the one they call the Dragon-hearted – Lydia, the Housecarl of Whiterun. You were with the Dragonborn at Korvanjund."

"I am, and I was, yes," Lydia said. "Though my battle-name is 'the Dragon's Heart,' actually. May we speak inside?"

"Of course," Father said and led her inside. Now, up close, Breanna could see the tracery and etchings that ran all along the Housecarl's magnificent armor. That suit alone was worth their entire farm. Lydia gave Mother a quick look and then her eyes settled on Breanna a long moment before returning to her father.

Father opened a bottle and poured the golden contents into a pewter tankard. "I'm afraid we don't have much to offer you, but please have some mead." Lydia accepted it and took a seat by the fire. Father sat opposite her, while mother perched on the double bed to the side.

"Now, what was it you think could be here? As you can see, we harbor no treasures worthy of the Dragonborn's attention."

"It was a book," Breanna admitted, stepping up beside the Housecarl. The warrioress raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at her.

"You found it, then?"

"Do you know what she's talking about?" Father demanded. "Did you take something from Heljarchen Hall?" Breanna didn't like it when he used that voice; she didn't like to see him upset.

"No, Father. I found it, near the bone yard," she said. "It was the day those bad men…" Her voice trailed off at the worried look on his face. Breanna went and removed her find from its hiding place, presenting it to the Housecarl with both hands. The red stone in the dragon's eye caught the firelight, glowing like an ember.

"It was half-buried in the snow and dirt. I cleaned it off best I could…and I-I," she struggled with the words. "I read a little bit of it. Please tell the Dragonborn that I'm really sorry. I meant no disrespect."

Embarrassment burned in her stomach. This woman was the closest thing to the Dovahkiin she would likely ever meet, and she had to lay her shame at the Housecarl's metal boots. Intentional or not, she had hurt her hero, both in the finding and the keeping. She wanted to cry, but kept herself from it. Not in front of the Dragon's Heart. No, not in front of _her_.

Father and Mother looked at her in shock. Lydia's statue-like face also registered surprise, though there was no anger burning in her eyes. The surprise seemed genuine, too.

"You read it?"

"Yes. I'm so _sorry_." The tears came that much closer to being. "Please take it, and please don't punish my parents. They had no idea what I had done."

Lydia moved so quickly, her gauntlet was like a striking snake. She snatched the book, leafed through the pages, seemingly at random, and then held the book out for Breanna to see.

"Here, read this passage." Breanna shook her head, but Lydia's voice was strangely calming. "It's all right. No one will be punished, little one. Just please, read this passage if you can."

Breanna wrung her hands as she looked down at the words, then read them aloud:

"CASTLE DAWNGUARD," she intoned. "It hurts the heart to see such a magnificent fortress in a state of disrepair. It's filled with spider webs, broken crates and shattered dreams. Still, the bones of the castle remain strong. With only a few repairs, a hundred men could hold this castle against ten thousand. I will open the purse strings and see what I can do to return her to her former glory. Isran believes…"

Lydia turned to another page without looking at it. "Now this one."

"WHERE WILL I GO?" Breanna said. "After all my encounters, will I return to Sovngarde when I die? There are so many claims upon me, where will my soul go once my days are finished? I cannot help but wonder…"

Lydia again flipped pages. "And this one."

"MARA'S DAY: I waited at the altar with Maramal, nervous as a rabbit before a pack of wolves. I would have rather faced down three dragons than disappoint her on this day. When she arrived, arrayed in her finery, my heart caught in my throat. She was so beautiful. How many battles had we fought together? How many times had we saved each other's lives? And now there was no blood, no clash of steel, no mere seconds separating life and death, just we two, and the sun in her hair. We said our vows and I awaited the night to come, and the goddess I would hold in my arms then."

"Thank you," Lydia said, looking down at the pages herself a time. "Tell me, how did you do that?"

"Do what?" Breanna asked. "I don't understand."

"How did you read this book?"

"Like I would read any book; I just looked at the pages and read the words I see there."

Lydia smiled, and Breanna liked it. It was a good smile, one which made her whole face change in character. "Would it surprise you to know that not even I could read this book? The Dragonborn writes in a magical script, and sometimes in the Dragon tongue. And yet you read it as easily as you would the Yellow Book of Riddles."

"But that's impossible," Mother said. "She knows nothing of magic or dragons, or any of that sort."

Lydia handed her the book, turned to the page Breanna had just read. "See for yourself."

Mother looked at the words and her brow furrowed. "It's nothin' but a bunch of scratches in a row." She looked past the book to her daughter. "How could you read this, Breanna? Is this one of your tricks?"

Breanna felt more confused now. "I don't know. I just did it. The words looked normal to me." She felt herself curl into a ball with slumped shoulders. Truly she didn't know what the fuss was about, but now it seemed to put her at the center of attention she didn't want.

"Breanna, is it?" Lydia said. "Can you go play outside? I need to speak with your parents alone."

Breanna did as Lydia bade her, and made a show of walking outside, before circling quickly around to the spot where she could hear what was being said below the window sill. Her breath came in shallow draughts, just in case Lydia could hear her breathing.

"What does this mean? How could she do that?" Mother was asking. "Is she… _cursed_?"

Lydia shifted in her chair, and somehow Breanna knew the warrior had orientated on Father. "You admit you were at Korvanjund. I know, by name, every Legionnaire who survived that expedition, as well as those who died there." Breanna heard the _thunk_ of a mug being set down. "I don't remember you."

"Yes, I was there," Father said, and Breanna could hear the resigned pain in his voice. "But I remember _you_. I grew up in Solitude, and my father was in the Legion. He used to say that so long as the Talos faithful defended our land, Skyrim would never know defeat. I believed him. And when the fighting started, I knew which side had the right of it," he said. "Or so I thought."

"Many of the officers knew me by sight, as well as by name," Father continued. "So I ran away. I took the name Kasmojan, after my grandfather who had been from Windhelm, and lived my life behind one of their helmets so no one on the battlefield would recognize me. When the Stone-Fist discovered the location of the Jagged Crown, I was part of the detachment he sent to hold the fane until the crown could be secured. A few more hours, a day perhaps, and we would have succeeded. But even if we had, what I saw there told me how hollow a gesture the Jagged Crown would have been sitting upon Ulfric's brow."

"Go on," Lydia said, like chilled steel.

"I was guarding the approach when the Legion attacked. My friend, Kjoll, was with me. I took one of them right through the throat with my first arrow as our front ranks descended the walk and clashed with the Legionnaires. Kjoll and I rained ironheads down upon them. Their shields looked like a pin-cushions. For a moment, it looked as though our line might hold, even against Legate Rikke's flashing blade. I knew her, too, you see. And then…then…"

"You heard a voice," Lydia said.

"Unlike any other," Father agreed. "It was as though thunder crackled within it. I felt a flash of heat and our front ranks were engulfed in flames – men made into living torches. Even in my dreams, I can still hear them screaming." Father paused; Breanna seemed to sense Mother's presence at his side, even without seeing it.

"That broke our ranks, and Kjoll and I found ourselves with Legionnaires rushing towards us. I figured we were dead. I fumbled with my axe, but I never even raised it. I saw a golden figure at the fore, armored like I had never seen. I couldn't tell whether it was man or woman, but the helmet bore a face, like a statue, serene, even amused. A golden mace, spattered with gore, was in one hand, and the other glowed with power. Then I heard the voice again, only louder. Something hit me in the chest and I was suddenly falling. The fall should have killed me, but Kjoll and I both landed in a deep snow drift at the bottom of the approach.

"I awoke sometime later, just as the Legion was pulling out. Kjoll had hidden me in the drift. None of them noticed us, not even Rikke, not until a woman in steel plate, missing her helmet, and the golden figure came last. I watched in horror as the figure stopped and that statue-like helmet turned slowly towards us, breath coming from the mouth in gouts like dragon's smoke. I remember shaking as much in fear as from the cold. But then, it turned away and left us alone."

"My Thane had no interest in taking your lives," Lydia said. "Had you surrendered, it would have been honored."

"It wasn't until later that Kjoll told me that we had met the Dragonborn, and rarer still, lived to tell the tale," Father said. "It was the Voice – there could be no doubt. And what can ordinary men do in the face of such a foe? When I realized that the Dragonborn had sided with the Empire, I knew our cause was lost. It was only a matter of time until our defeat. Talos had returned, and had sided with those who had banned his worship. So, I went back to Solitude and joined the Legion. Told them I had been captured in Dawnstar and had managed to escape. Kjoll was with the College, so they believed me."

"You betrayed both sides, then."

"It wasn't like that," Father protested. "Talos meant, _means_ everything to me, and if I had to give up worshiping him in public, I would. Without hesitation. Why bother with temples and rebellions when Talos himself walks among us again? What better way to honor him than by joining in common cause to the Empire that he himself founded in his past mortal life?"

"You take an awful risk, telling me this," Lydia said. "Balgruuf has no tolerance for Bears in his midst, particularly those from Imperial holdings. How do you know that I won't turn you over to his justice?"

"I don't," Father replied. "But it is a terrible sin to lie to a Thane, or their Housecarl. When I saw your face, I could not hold my tongue. Each life I have taken weighs upon my soul, but none so much as the Legionnaire I took on the day I met your master."

"Caius," Lydia said. "Caius Penetaus. That was his name. Had your arrow been a hand-span to your left, it would have found me instead, when your one of your comrades relieved me of my helmet in battle."

"Caius," Father repeated. "Truth be told, when you arrived, I thought you had come for me. Perhaps my conscience has been weighing on me of late. So tell me, Housecarl, what will you do now that you know?"

"A life my Thane has spared is not one I'm allowed to take," Lydia answered. "The war is over, and my errand here was about the book. Now that I'm here, however, I must know about the child. She's not your girl – she's not a Nord, at least not fully– so where did she come from?"

"My brother's daughter," Father said. "Wulfgar left Skyrim in the Legion to reinforce the south against further incursions by the Thalmor. A woman brought her to me from High Rock, with a letter from him. Said he met his wife near Daggerfall, though she died during one of the border skirmishes. I have no idea who his wife was; he never named her. A few months later Legate Rikke personally informed me he fell in the line of duty."

"And this farm was an award from General Tullius for your war service," Lydia said.

"Yes, but for how much longer, I can't say. Yes, Hilda, I see how you look at me. You married a traitor. I shouldn't have kept this from you…but the war, the war took _everything_. I didn't want you to have to share in my burdens."

This gave Breanna pause. She had been content to listen, even at this revelation. Father had always done what he thought was right, sacrificing much of himself for others. If he had switched sides, he must have had his reasons. But now, it seemed that Mother might not abide by Mara's vows for much longer. What would become of her family?

"Has the girl ever done anything strange or shown any odd tendencies?" Lydia said, bringing the conversation back around.

"She's fearless, I'll tell you that," Mother said. "When she was five, she ran off into the woods. We found her a day later in a wolf's lair. She was petting a fully grown she-wolf as though it were a pup. She had not been afraid, and so the wolf had taken her in, even let her curl up with her young. She told us later that she had found 'a nice doggy.' She had no idea how close she came to being in the belly of that beast."

"That is odd. What else?" Lydia asked.

"A few weeks ago, a Stormcloak I knew in the war found the farm. Varingar was his name. He was little more than a bandit even then, and worse since Windhelm fell. He took us by surprise and we were at his mercy. We might have died…had…" Father paused, but then finally found his voice.

"Had not Breanna saved us. She killed Varingar right in front of me as though splitting a log, stabbed another, and threw an axe with perfect precision. I've thrown axes; I know how difficult it can be, but she threw it as though a master. She had never even picked up an axe like that before as far as I know, much less thrown one. And later, she felt no remorse as the blood she had spilled. She was more afraid of getting in trouble from us than anything else. I've never seen its like. Do you know what has happened to her?"

Breanna heard only silence, until the clanking of metal and groaning of floorboards told her that Lydia had stood up.

"Curious. A lack of fear, unexpected skill at arms, and now some hidden talents with magic," Lydia said. "Without knowing more about who her mother was, it's hard to say for certain, but it's clear that she is a very special child. Strange though she may be, there may be opportunity for her in all of this. With your permission, I'd like to speak to her."

"Of course," Father said. "Do you think you can help her?"

"Perhaps. That remains to be seen." More clanking and creaking and Breanna heard the front door open. She was off like a shot to get into place away from the house before Lydia rounded the corner. Even in her armor, the lack of the helmet humanized the tall Nord. Breanna doubted that she would ever be that tall, but the dreamer in her wished that she would be strong like her, powerful like her.

"I take it you were listening to all of that?" Lydia said as she approached.

"How did you know?" Breanna said in wonder. She had been so careful not give away her presence.

"I didn't," Lydia replied. "But I do now." The warrior smiled, and there was genuine warmth in it. Lydia looked to the east and the sun floating among the clouds. The golden rays were quite kind to her face and gave her brown hair a tinge of red around the edges.

"Am I some kind of freak? Some kind of monster?" Breanna asked.

"No, Breanna. I've seen monsters before, enough to know you're not one of them," Lydia said to her. "I may know of a way to find out why you are different, and perhaps how best to use the gifts the Divines have seen fit to bestow upon you."

"What do you mean?"

"My Thane has a soft spot for victims of the war," Lydia said, placing her gauntlet on Breanna's shoulder. "You may not have lost your parents in the civil war, but you are still a war orphan in many ways. You might find a place in the Children of the Dragon, and see about putting your gifts to their best use. I won't lie: it will not be easy, but Skyrim could use as many stalwart sons and daughters to stand in her defense."

Breanna tilted her head. "Are…are you asking if I would like to come with you and tr-train with the Dragonborn?"

Lydia squeezed her shoulder. "I am indeed. It is an opportunity that few are offered, but the choice must be yours."

The window in Breanna's mind through which she daydreamed was thrown wide with the possibilities. To go and see the Dragonborn! It was all she could ever imagine. To learn from him, speak with him, to share his table! Her heart leapt in her chest with renewed vigor. New vistas opened up before her eyes, and it took her breath away just as surely as the striking Skyrim landscape around her. But then it all darkened as a thought came to her.

"But what about Mother and Father?" she asked. "Will I be able to come back?"

"If that is what you wish, but you may find that your studies will keep you busy for some time to come. I would advise you to say firm good-byes if you wish to come with me. I've found that it's better that way. This will be your new life."

 _This will be your new life._

"Let me talk to my folks," Breanna said.

"Of course," Lydia said. "I'll attend to Jet in the meantime. I can wait until mid-afternoon, but I will have to know your answer by then. Understand?"

Breanna nodded and went inside the farmhouse. Father looked up and there were unshed tears glistening around his eyes. Mother pointedly didn't look at her. Breanna could feel the distance between them now, and the sudden void was heavy in her chest. Father's arms opened, however, and she had her own arms around his neck in the space of a heartbeat.

"She wants you to go with her, doesn't she?" Father said and his voice caught. "My world seems to diminish before my very eyes."

"Lydia thinks the Dragonborn can help me," she said, feeling Father's arms tighten in response. "I might be gone for a long time, Father."

"Sweet child," Father said, now crying openly. "I knew that one day you would leave, but I had hoped it would many years to come. But I see the mark of destiny in the workings of today. You were meant to find that book, just as you were meant to ride out with the Housecarl." He parted from her, holding her shoulders at arm's length before him.

"I see what was best in Wulfgar in you. He was a good man, a far better one than I, but know that my flaws do not keep me from loving you. Carry that love with you, though all the world may seem to darken around you at times. The bonds that hold us in the life run deep, Breanna. Cherish them, hold them close to your heart, for tomorrow is never assured."

He managed a smile as he wiped his tears on his sleeve, his inner steel asserting itself. "Go on now, pack your things. You mustn't keep the Dragonborn waiting."

It didn't take Breanna long. She didn't have much in the way of belongings, just another set of clothes, a single doll, Trollslayer, and a couple of apples she took from the side table. Mother didn't look at her as she walked through to door, and Father merely smiled at her through his mask of sadness.

Stepping through the door into the sunlight felt like entering a new world, and one that didn't feel right somehow. She felt hollow, empty as she stood there, the chickens pecking at seeds around her feet. Lydia turned from her warhorse and put down the brush. The Nord came before and knelt where they could see eye to eye.

"I see it on your face, Breanna," Lydia said. "It is hard to leave what is known behind, even if that is our heart's desire. Every hero Skyrim has ever known, including my Thane, has been where you are now. But if you can devote yourself to a higher purpose, you will find in time that the pain you feel here," Lydia pointed at the little girl's heart, "is worth bearing."

A bittersweet pride filled Breanna just then. "I'm ready, Lydia. Show me the way."

The Housecarl smiled and the sun seemed to brighten. "Very well, then. Let's be away." Together they mounted Jet and in moments the magnificent beast carried them south towards Whiterun. The farm disappeared behind them as they descended the hill and found the cobblestone road. Breanna clung to the Lydia from behind, seeing how the woman and the beast became as one as Jet went into a brisk cantor.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Breanna said as the tall heights of Dragonsreach grew steadily on the horizon. "The one in the book about Mara's Day. That's why they call you the Dragon's Heart. You married the Dragonborn."

Lydia's helmet turned to look at the girl over her shoulder pauldron. "You are very clever for being so young. How did you know?"

"I saw the way your eyes glittered when I read that passage. It was talking about you, and you had never heard that before."

"It was my honor," Lydia replied. "To love the Dragonborn is to know the love a dragon – fierce and wonderful, and even terrifying at times. You will see for yourself when we reach Dragonsreach."

"So, we're…we're really going to see the Dragonborn? The _actual_ Dragonborn?" She couldn't quite keep the excitement from her voice.

"We are, Breanna," Lydia said. "And not soon enough for my tastes." As stern and serious as the Housecarl's voice could be, it was equally tender when she spoke of her love. And what a love of the ages it must be! The wife of Talos Stormcrown reborn, of the Savior of Tamriel!

As Jet went into a thundering gallop, Breanna could feel her meeting with the Dragonborn draw closer by the moment. In a day, a morning, her old life had gone away, but soon - very soon - her new life would begin.


	4. PART 4: ENTER THE DRAGONBORN

PART 4: ENTER THE DRAGONBORN

The sun was well into its path to evening as Breanna dismounted at the stables before the city. The tallest heights of Dragonsreach had grown as they had approached, casting ever-lengthening shadows from the walls and watchtowers.

Lydia handed Jet's reins to a tall Nord that reminded Breanna of her father. "Here you are, Skulvar," Lydia said, giving the man a small purse of Septims. "Take good care of her."

"Of course, Housecarl," he replied. "Her mane will shine like the sun next time you see her." Lydia gave her warhorses head a gentle touch and then the two of them walked towards the large stone archway, manned by town guard. As they walked, Breanna caught the scent of something musky and heavily spiced mixed the smell of rose petals and cooking meat. There were elements to the combination that were repulsive, but the effect was exotic, when taken together.

"The Khajit caravans camp down there," Lydia said as if in response, pointing to a spot below the battlements. The glow of distant campfires danced there. The two of them passed through the arch without challenge, save for the guards waving down at Lydia, who waved back. Surely they knew her. Surely everyone knew her here.

They passed over several small bridges and woodworks which wound around until at last the massive doors of the city proper stood before them both. Lydia didn't break stride as they moved onto the streets. They went through a market of sorts, with the merchants winding down from the day as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

Then there were stairs, lots of stairs, which took her past a beautiful tree sprouting lavender blossoms, and then a long trek up stone steps overlooking streams of flowing water. When they finally reached the top, Breanna felt a little out of breath.

"Just a little farther now," Lydia said, giving her a helping hand. "We're almost there.

They crossed the bridge to the carved wooden doors of Dragonreach, the home of the Jarl of Whiterun, Breanna's sworn lord. At Lydia's approach, the guards snapped to attention and opened the doors into a magnificent golden hall. The highest rafters were dizzyingly high above Breanna's head as they entered. There were yet more stairs, flanked on either side with thick pillars of carved wood, which lead into the feast chamber. In the middle was large fire pit, and to either side were two long trestle tables with fine silver plates, goblets and candlesticks. A great many people were here, feasting, laughing, and talking amongst themselves.

Beyond that, another short staircase led to an upper level and the Jarl's throne, which sat below a gigantic dragon skull, its maw open in a silent roar. She couldn't see anyone sitting on the throne for another small crowd of people clustered around it. Imperials, both men and women, in fine but modest clothes mixed with hulking Nords in leathers and skins. A few people in hooded robes made it impossible to tell if they were even human. Breanna saw a muscular elven woman with ashen grey skin and gleaming red eyes among them, though wound tight as a bowstring. She looked fearsome, in many ways like Lydia.

"Up here," Lydia said, guiding her up the steps towards the throne. As they approached, a particularly huge Nord turned around towards them and opened his arms in a gesture of welcome to them both. It felt as though Breanna recognized him from Heljarchen Hall. Few men, even Nords, were that that tall, that packed with rippling muscle.

That must be him, she thought, and her breath caught in her chest. He was ruggedly handsome, with the strong features of a hero. Everything from his scaled armor to the red war paint on his face, to his beard, which was pulled tight like a pony tail for his chin, looked strong, savage.

Breanna stepped forward and took a knee before him, "Hail, Dovahkiin, Dragon of the North!"

Despite the din of the crowd, it seemed as though her words suddenly echoed in the chamber, and the crowd stopped talking. They turned towards her with looks of confusion. Even the Dragonborn looked to Lydia and raised an eyebrow, then looked down at her.

That's when things began to shift in Breanna's mind. Details didn't add up. The man she had spied on before was perhaps even thicker around the arms and chest than this man, but was somewhat shorter. The color of his beard had not been so lightly colored, and the greatsword strapped across his back was not the same. Doubt began to circle in her mind.

"You give me great credit, little one," the giant said. "But…"

"I think you're looking for me," a voice said from the crowd. Breanna, still on one knee, turned her head to see the Imperials step forward. One was middle-aged and bald, but pristine in his dress. The other one, who had clearly spoken just then, was a young woman with dark brown hair done up in thick braids around her temples.

Breanna got to her feet. This couldn't be right. This woman was younger even than Mother! Middle-height and slender of waist, was this the Slayer of Alduin, the Savior of Tamriel? But just as before, details started to align in her mind in the space of a heartbeat.

The woman has eyes of such light blue as to be almost white, which gave her stare the look of a statue. Her skin had a reddish tinge to it, not quite as pronounced as in a Redguard, but enough to tint her skin dusky like a light sunburn. Thought she was an Imperial by her dress and elegant bearing, the shape of her eyes and nose looked distinctively Nordic, while the shape of her jaw and the fullness of her lips seemed almost Breton. The way she stood spoke of strength, too. Father had told her how to spot a warrior and there was something about the set of her shoulders, the way she stood that told the tale, though she appeared to carry no weapon at her hip. Her hands were strong and lined, as though from great toil, like a carpenter or stonecutter, though her clothes spoke of coin.

"You..you …are the…" Breanna's voice deserted her. The Dragonborn is a woman, she thought. It flew in the face of all the men's talk of who and what the Dragonborn represented, but just then it filled her with joy. The Dragonborn is a woman!

"Yes, that's me," she said, with a beautiful smile. "You were expecting someone else?"

"No, no…it's just that I saw…someone," Breanna said sputtering, but the woman's smile deepened and Breanna knew she was only joking.

"It's alright," the Dovahkiin said. "Most people think I'm a man…until they meet me." She winked. "It gives first impressions a certain zest to them." She looked up at Lydia.

"Success?" she asked, and Lydia nodded.

"And a new friend," Lydia said. "And one who has been bursting at the seams to meet you."

"Indeed? And does this new friend have a name?" the Dragonborn asked, turning to Breanna.

"B-b-breanna, milady," she said. This was her. Really her. The hero who had defined her life, the living legend, the demi-goddess and patron of all of Skyrim, right here! And yet she was so friendly, so pretty and refined. Could it truly be?

"They call me Ysmir, as I'm sure you've heard," the Dragonborn replied. "But amongst friends, I go by the name my mother gave me – Numidia. I would like it very much if you would call me that, Breanna."

"You were named after the Brass Tower, weren't you?" Breanna asked, recognizing the feminine form of the name. "The one that Tiber Septim used to unite the Empire."

"Well," Numidia said, glancing at Lydia. "You're a clever one, aren't you?"

"We should speak in private," Lydia said in a low voice. Numidia turned to the assembled guests and gave a sharp curtsy. "Please excuse me, Jarl. I won't be long." A tall man with long blonde hair and a jeweled diadem stepped closer. He was middle aged, but his long limbs were still leanly muscular. The man laughed, and his voice reminded Breanna of Father's.

"Of course, my Thane," he said. "Far be it for me to come between the dragon and her heart, after you've been parted. But when you're done, I'd like to meet this young lady who thinks my brother is the Dragonborn."

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater turned to look at Breanna. His face was kind and his green eyes danced. "You know there'll be no living with him now, right?" Everyone laughed, including the man in question, who raised his drinking horn high.

Lydia led them up the wooden staircase to the right of the throne. (Breanna wondered how the nobles dealt with so many stairs in their world.) They emerged onto a balcony that overlooked the main hall, but it was broad and only a single guard stood there in vigil.

"Go on, please join the festivities," Numidia said to him. Breanna couldn't see his face behind his helmet, but guessed he was smiling broadly.

"I'll raise one in your honor, Dovahkiin, thank you."

A moment later and they were alone. Numidia sat down on a bench. "So?" she asked.

Lydia withdrew the book from her pack and handed it over. The Dragonborn's eyes glittered like gemstones when she saw it, and that smile, never far from her expression dawned like the sun on a clear morning.

"You found it! Thank you, love. I thought I had lost it close to the Hall."

"There's something else," Lydia said, gesturing to Breanna. "The girl can read it."

Numidia had been leafing through the pages, as though reacquainting herself with an old friend, but she stopped and closed the book, looking directly at Breanna.

"Is that so?"

"I'm reeealy sorry," Breanna said, looking at her shoes. She had been dreading this moment. "I didn't read much of it. I didn't know what it was at first, but when I did, I put it down. I didn't want to hurt your feelings by reading something of yours that was private. Please forgive me."

Numidia raised Breanna's chin to look her in the eye. There was such tenderness in her expression. "You did that for me?"

"Uh-huh," Breanna said, now close to tears. "You're the Dragonborn. You're my hero."

Numidia reached over slowly and drew Breanna into an embrace, and Breanna clung to her in return. Yet something happened as her hands wrapped around the Dragonborn's neck. Breanna felt a jolt, and suddenly found herself standing before a large stone gateway facing outward. He she had just seen it on her way into Whiterun, but in the reverse direction.

She seemed taller, somehow, and dressed in wickedly shaped red and black armor that she recognized from her time in the court of Quagmire. A glow flickered around her helmet that was orange like flame. The same energy flowed down her arms, blue like ice, but returning to orange around her claw-like gauntlets where they formed horned dragon heads.

She felt strong, stronger than the mountains, and something told her that she would never be tired. She looked through the gates at the enormous host that faced her, many bearing shields emblazoned with the bear of Windhelm, gold on blue. Fire streaked across the sky from siege engines casting destruction over the walls. A need filled her to destroy those infernal machines, but a greater need to defend the gate seemed to stop her from tearing a streak directly there.

Breanna looked down and found that she carried a golden mace in her left hand and a war axe made of black metal in her left hand, which itself seemed glow with a dim purple aura. The host came at her and Breanna felt herself smile.

"STORM-WRATH-LIGHTNING!" she heard herself say, and thunder seemed to resonate in her voice. The bright sun overhead disappeared, replaced by a howling gale of wind and rain. Lightning crackled in the sky, and even reached own with the blue-purple fork to claim a man rushing at her with a bear skin headdress. And yet it seemed as though the wind and rain did not touch her, as though the storm itself bent to her purpose and will.

Breanna closed into the mass, and the killing began, seldom requiring more than a single blow to fell an enemy. Each time her mace landed, shields shattered and bone cracked. When her axe struck home, it came away with wisps of lavender energy that seemed to flow into her. They could not stand against her, Breanna was sure, but there were too many of them. Already some had sought to bypass her, and yet more rushed towards the gates. She felt the power surge within her.

"SNOW-HUNTER-WING!" she cried to the air. She heard her own thoughts echo: Hear my voice and come forth! I summon you in my time of need!"

A roar split the sky in answer, and a winged shadow passed over the battlefield…

And that's when she broke contact with the Dragonborn, and the strange spell was broken. Numidia looked at her quizzically.

"Did you feel that?" she asked.

"Yes. I-I saw you at Whiterun's gates, fighting the Stormcloaks. You…you summoned a dragon, and I felt him answer your call."

Numidia looked up at Lydia, then back to Breanna. "Well, you must be a special little girl to read me like that. My mental wards and bulwarks usually make something like that impossible. And yet I can see by the look on your face that you did not mean to do this; it was as much of a surprise to you as it was to me. I take it that Lydia brought you are here to join my children?"

"The Children of the Dragon, yes," Breanna said. "If that's okay, I mean. Lydia said you might help me find out why I'm…different."

Numidia sat back on the cushioned bench and folded her hands in her lap, regarding the little girl. "You are certainly a mystery, Breanna. A challenge, to be sure." The Dragonborn smiled again and it felt like the world was new. "I love a challenge. It will not be without great effort, but I think I can help you hone your gifts, to explore their limitations and find ways to control them. Besides that, I can teach you how to fight, how to move, and mostly importantly, how to think. There is one thing, though."

"What is it?" Breanna's heart trembled. Please, no! Please don't send me away after all this. Not you. Anyone but you. "I'll do anything."

"The Children of the Dragon is not just a name, Breanna," Numidia said. "I take a personal responsibility for the well-being of each boy and girl that comes into my care. In that sense, you become my child, and I your mother. But the reverse is true. I expect my children to treat each other well, as though related by blood, regardless of differences in race, religion, or social standing. I also expect you to conduct yourself well in all matters, whether in the heat of battle, or at the supper table of a Jarl. You will represent me as much I represent you. Can you do that for me?"

Breanna felt her lungs shudder involuntarily, and tears began rolling down her cheeks. Not of sadness, no, but for the acceptance being offered so openly to her. It was everything she could have dreamed of and more. It was really happening.

"Uh-huh," she nodded, unable to say more that. Numidia leaned forward and swept her into another embrace, kissing her lightly on the top her head. "Then welcome to the family…my daughter."

Breanna wasn't sure how long it lasted, but when they parted, the Dragonborn beamed at her. "Now, let's go introduce you properly to the Jarl," she said, offering her hand. "He'll want to meet the newest member of my family."


	5. PART 5: LESSONS OF THE DRAGON

PART 5: BREAKFAST WITH THE DRAGON

Breanna sat across from her greatest hero at one of the Jarl's long trestle tables. The Dragonborn herself considered the placement of the silver goblets, the arrangement of the plates, and the dinnerware. Both of them had a plate of eggs, bacon, and thick oat bread and golden butter before them. A frosty cup of milk sat to one side, near another cup of fresh apple juice. The smell caused Breanna's stomach to rumble loudly. And yet the Dragonborn did not partake, not yet anyway, so neither did Breanna.

Numidia looked up at her and pointed to the two pieces of neatly folded white cloth to the side. "Now, the larger one is spread across your lap. This is simply to protect your garments from any passing spills or staining. The other, smaller one, drapes across your non-dominant arm, usually your left arm." She placed each one with care so that Breanna could see her do it. Numidia then speared a piece of scrambled egg with a fork and brought it slowly to her lips, but did not eat. "Your covered arm can rest on the edge of the table lengthwise, like so. This further protects your clothing. For potentially messed bites, your covered arm can track to your chin along with your spoon or fork to prevent any spillage," she said, then smiled. "This is of particular use to ladies who do not wish to wear their dinner along their neckline. I tell you from experience that congealing gravy down the front of your dress makes for an uncomfortable evening."

It was a lesson in Imperial manners, and Breanna was aware how rough and unrefined she was. And yet, these methods and customs were a glimpse into a larger world, even if they did seem removed from the wild antics that Nords often adopted around the feast table.

"I know it may seem strange," Numidia said, 'but you will be judged by your manners. Even if those around you boast and slosh their mead, be the exception. While it can, at times, make you feel like an outsider, I never once found a lord, even the most traditional of traditional Nord nobles, who did not appreciate proper behavior at the table." Numidia gestured for the girl to tuck in, and Breanna did so, slowly, each bite a deliberate act, each drink a gentle gesture with no slurping.

"Even if you are ravenously hungry, never let it show. If food is offered, accept it, even if you take only token bites of it. Whether you're dealing with a Count or a Jarl, remember always: _you are a guest_. They are under no obligation to share their hospitality with you, so be gracious about it.

Numidia watched Breanna's method of eating for a moment, and smiled. "Very good. It's not necessary to dab your lips after every drink, just if you feel that any remains afterwards. Also, the napkin is a good way of marking your seat if you must leave the hall for any reason. Simply drape it across the bench, or the arm of the chair in a diamond pattern. That will let everyone know that the spot is taken."

Breanna took a drink of apple juice and pointedly did not dab her face twice this time. "I never thought the napkin would be the first weapon the Dragonborn taught me to use."

"An oft-overlooked one, to be sure," Numidia replied. "But not all battles are waged with swords and shields. I have seen flanking maneuvers, verbal ambushes, and whole endeavors routed between courses. It is my wish that you be skilled in all methods of contending, my daughter. And as a woman, you will be judged more harshly than men, whether in demeanor or appearance. Your social arsenal must be kept keen, and ready to be brought to bear at a moment's notice."

Breanna looked down at the new dress the Dragonborn had given her. It was a bright red with long sleeves and a dun-colored panel towards the bottom and around the fringes. While it was plain compared to the clothing of others in the hall, it was still the nicest garment Breanna had ever owned. Her hair had been washed, cut, and braided in a style like Numidia's, by Breanna's request.

"You know, you're not anything how I pictured," Breanna said, using Numidia's method for effectively eating and talking without rudeness, pacing the bites and words.

Numidia put down her fork and took a drink of milk. _Milk-drinker_ , Breanna thought. _The catch-all Nord insult. I bet no one would dare say that to her!_

"How so?" The Dragonborn asked.

"Mother, um, that is to say my _aunt_ , thought of you as a storm contained within human form, a force nature, wild and unyielding as the sea or the mountain. But here you are. You're _nice_ , and teaching me how to eat the proper way."

"It's flattering to hear that I'm thought of in such powerful, uncompromising terms," Numidia admitted. "And when I wish, I can be quite formidable in a variety of ways. But I must remember that the power I've been given must be used for the betterment of others, and never for my own self-aggrandizement. I did not always hold to such a standard."

Breanna tilted her head, "But why should the rules apply to you? You're the _Dragonborn_. Can't you just do whatever you want?"

"I suppose I could," Numidia said. "And there are few who could stop me, if I chose to do so. You see, there was a time when I did just that, which has supplied me with no small amount of regret ever since. I went to some very dark places and very nearly lost myself. I may carry the soul of a dragon, a soul that not only allows me certain positive attributes, but one that carries with it a thirst for power, destruction, and dominance. I _could_ use that as an excuse to act in all manner of horrible ways. I could install myself as High Queen, perhaps even Empress of a new Septim Dynasty, and crush all who might oppose me if I wished. But simply because something is in our nature does not mean that we must be a slave to it."

"So you choose to be nice to others…because you can?" Breanna asked before taking a bit of bacon.

"Precisely," Numidia said nodding. "I was raised Imperial, and taught from a very young age the importance of the community, and the saving graces of civilization, even when those conventions are mere shadows of what they were in times past. I did not slay the World-Eater simply to replace an overlord with an _overlady_."

"I have so many questions, could I…um…maybe…" Breanna blurted out, stars in her eyes. Her hero was no course ruffian, but a lady in all respects, beautiful and responsible, noble even.

"Ask away," Numidia said. "But don't let your breakfast grow cold."

Breanna's mind whirled and spun. She did have questions, so many in fact that it took a moment to pin one down in her mind and get it from her mind to her mouth.

"The Song of the Dragonborn says 'by _his_ honor we're sworn,'" Breanna began. "But you're obviously not a 'him.' Surely people know you're a girl."

"Ah, you see dragons are neither male nor female," Numidia answered. "Though I have a human body, which is female. But most assume I am male simply because of the power I represent. While Skyrim is more cosmopolitan now than it was, the epitome of power in the mind of most Nords is a male persona, and they are the ones who translated the song from Draconic. Or wrote it originally, depending on who at the Bard's College you ask."

"So, you just let that go? Just let people assume you're a boy?"

"It can have a practical purpose as well," Numidia said. "I encourage it because it gives me a chance of blending in. Some who would might be nervous or afraid to speak to the Dragonborn, might not have such a difficulty speaking to Numidia. There are also times when those who might be up to no good might not recognize me instantly. It doesn't always work, but it is an advantage of sorts. Perception is a powerful weapon, on par with your napkin." Numidia nodded towards Breanna's arm, in a polite reminder to straighten it. "Remember that."

"But where are you from? Where did you grow up?" Breanna said, finding her voice. "Who were your parents? Did you have any brothers or sisters? If you're Imperial, why did you even come to Skyrim? How did you meet Lydia? Who was the dragon you defeated at Heljarchen Hall? What was Sovngarde like?" The girl took in a deep breath.

Numidia laughed, the sound of silver bell, bright and clear. "Let me see if I can answer them in turn. I was born in Kvatch, in Cyrodil, birthplace of the 7th Champion. My father was a Nord merchant who made his fortune exporting grains, wines and other fineries from the heartland back to Skyrim. My mother was a Breton spell blade who had been a Tribune in the Legion. They met during one of his caravans north. I was the oldest of two. I had a little brother, Martin, but he…he died of the coughing sickness when he was just seven."

Breanna bowed her head and placed both of her hands over her heart out respect for the dead. "I'm sorry." Numidia acknowledged her with silent thanks.

"I was named in the Grand Chapel of Akatosh when I was I eight days old. When I was reconfirmed at age 13, something happened. I'm not sure what it was, exactly. I don't remember it, but when the ritual concluded, my mother left for Skyrim saying that there was something 'she had to know.'" Numidia took a drink and set the goblet down on the polished wood table.

"I never saw her again. Both Father and I waited for her, but no letters came, no word. We know she made it as far as Falkreath, but from there…we never found out. Five years past, and Father's health declined though he was by no means an old man. If anyone I've ever known died of a broken heart, it was him. I became determined to find Mother to let her know of Father's passing, and find answers to why she had left."

"So you came to Skyrim? And did you find her?"

"No, I never found her," Numidia said with a touch of sadness. "On my progress north, I was invited to be the guest of the Count and Countess of Bruma. Their youngest son was a little older than me and took a liking to me. He was handsome and charming, and naturally assumed that because I was of gentry stock, and he a noble, that this gave him certain…rights over my person. He showed me the defunct Shrine to Talos to make sure we were alone. When I…rebuffed his attentions, he threw me into the dungeon, claiming that because my parents were dead, no one would miss me. I languished there for two months before a group of fellow prisoners staged an escape, led by a rather dashing rogue who I would later find belonged to the Thieves Guild in Cyrodil."

"Then what happened?" Breanna asked, leaning forward in her chair, her breakfast nearly forgotten.

"I travelled north through the Pale Pass and by chance or design ended up walking into an ambush meant for Ulfric and his Stormcloaks. Since I was familiar with the Legion, I was confused at what was happening, but my beggars rags did not present me well – another reason why the proper clothes can be important. They assumed I was a rebel and knocked me unconscious. From there, I awoke in a cart to Helgen, where I was to be executed."

"And that's when Alduin attacked?"

"Indeed," Numidia said, then tilted her head. "It's curious, though - for a dragon fated to end the world, he saved my life that day. He had shown up even a half-minute later than he did, my head would have been separated from my shoulders by the headsman's axe. Ironically, he saved me. I have always wondered about that – Alduin saved the one person fated to overthrow him, though it seemed as though he did not know me. Strange how the wheel turns. "

Breanna waited patiently, taking slow bites as the Dragonborn looked vaguely off into the distance. She wanted to ask more questions, but knew deep down that she was lucky to have learned as much as she did. But the expectancy must have shown all over her face, for Numidia continued.

"As for the rest, Lydia was assigned to me as a housecarl when I was named Thane of Whiterun, after I slew Mirmulnir. The name of the dragon I fought at my home was Yolviingal, a most fierce fire dragon. And as for Sovngarde…imagine beauty, idealized beauty, in all things. In the rocks, the trees, even the very air. Shor's Hall, I tell you Breanna, I have never seen its like. And to walk among the heroes of old, and to fight beside them…it is was a privilege beyond all honors. "

"And do you think you will see it again? Sovngarde, I mean. " Breanna said. "When, when…you know."

"When my days are at an end?" Numidia finished for her. "I hope so. There are some complications to that, not the least of which is that I'm not a Nord, and that the manner of my eventual demise is unknown to me. If it's not in battle, then…well, I can't be sure."

Breanna looked down at her plate, and toyed with a piece of bread. "I hope that is not for a very, very long time. I'm kinda sorry, I asked…um, Mama. I don't want you to die."

"Death is not the end, Breanna," Numidia said, reaching across the table to clasp her hand. "If my travels have taught me anything, it is that. But even if it were, it is not my death that concerns me, but rather what I choose to do with my life. That is something I hope you learn as well. As I can tell already, you are no ordinary child. Whether it be the gods, or fate, or strange coincidence, I believe you have much you can give to the world. But remember that _why_ you act is at least important as the act itself."

"I'll remember," Breanna said, covering her sadness with a bite of the bread. She didn't want to imagine a world without the Dragonborn in it. Moments passed and Breanna cleaned her plate the way she was taught, and then drained both of her cups, finishing off the meal with the sweetness of apple juice.

"Let us speak of brighter things now," Numidia said to her. "Walk with me."

The Dragonborn got up and came around the table. Hand in hand, they walked past the throne to the giant double doors in the chamber beyond. The guards open the doors for them, leading into the sunlit expanse of a balcony overlooking the plains of Whiterun. Breanna was sure Father's farmhouse and entire farm would fit within the high grey stones. Where the shadows gave way to the morning sun, another trestle table sat. Its finery was more rich than the others. There, Jarl Balgruuf sat at the head of the table. Both Lydia and the dark elf woman from the previous night guarded him, standing still like statues.

"At least have some bread," the Jarl said to Lydia as Breanna approached. "Or some juice. Now that my children are mostly grown, my table here is often empty. Proventus believes eating outdoors is too common, and Irileth here would sooner die than let down her guard in my presence, but you…you are my guest here."

"I thank the Jarl for his generous offer," Lydia said, her eyes still fixed on the beyond. "I can assure him that I am quite well attended to."

"Hmmmpf, I thought you might say that," he said, then caught sight of Breanna's approach. "Ahhh, the Dragonborn and her newest protégé. Welcome." A tiny look from Numidia told Breanna it was time to exercise her first lesson. Before the napkin, there had been an overview of forms of address and proper greetings. Breanna stepped forward, fanned the lines of her dress, and dropped low into a curtsy.

"Good morning, my Jarl," Breanna said. "I hope the morning finds you well."

"You've been practicing that, haven't you?" Balgruuf asked, and Breanna nodded, barely able to contain the smile. He returned it. "Well, you have a good teacher. Just take care that you don't be _too_ polite to me. Wouldn't want me getting soft in my old age, would we?"

"No, my Jarl."

Balgruuf got up and finished the morning mead in his gilded drinking horn. "When you're feel up to it, I hope the two of you will join me here when you break your morning fast," he said, then turned to Numidia. "I may have a problem that needs your attention, Dragonborn. I have to consult with Farengar on a number of things first, but please find me before the feast fires are lit this evening."

"As you wish, my Jarl," Numidia said, and curtsied well. _Very_ well. Breanna's own attempt had looked like a clumsy horker by comparison. Fluid grace and long practice – a potent combination. The Jarl left and Irileth trailed him, hand close to her blade.

"Good morning, love," Numidia said to Lydia when the Jarl reached the massive doors. "He means it, you know. He only asks that you sit and take sustenance with him."

"When the Jarl sits, I stand," Lydia said. She left no room for debate.

"As you wish, but will you join us now that he has departed?" Numidia said, gliding into a seat, and motioning Breanna to do the same. "Breanna here has already become a worthy student. I need only tell her once, and she masters each lesson with ease."

"I noticed as much," Lydia said, sitting down opposite them. "She seems highly motivated, especially where you're concerned." Lydia raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, and Breanna felt her cheekbones burn a little.

"In that regard, Breanna, let us speak of your future," Numidia said. "I had planned to stay here in Whiterun for the next few days, so I will use it to give you as many social lessons as I can. After that, I'd like you to report to Jorvaskr for basic combat training, the blade and the bow. I insist for all my children that etiquette and martial training come first. With the gifts you've displayed, however, Lakeview Manor will be your ultimate training ground; that is where my children learn magic and spellcraft. Once you have a solid foundation there, I would see you take stints in Solitude and Windstad Manor for bardic training and advanced combat methods, respectively. Beyond that, we shall see what else yours truly can teach you before I release you out into the world. Agreed?"

Breanna nodded vigorously. It sounded like becoming an adventurer required far more preparation and study than she originally thought. That the Dragonborn had such resources at her disposal to heap up on her was staggering. Breanna would receive an education to rival even some of the nobility.

"But don't think that you'll be on your own," Numidia continued. "You will have the other Children of the Dragon to turn to, and you are welcome to stay at any of my holdings throughout Skyrim. Even after graduation, you are still my child, after all."

"Wow, it sounds like you are building a guild," Breanna said. "I mean, not that that's a bad thing."

Numidia looked to Lydia then back to the girl. "That's one way to look at it. The world can be unforgiving, Breanna. I did not realize just how dark the shadows can fall when I set forth from Kvatch. I want each of you able to take care of yourself in a way that I never had. I will be there for you as much as I can, though my duties to the realm may take me away from time to time. "

"I can't believe how generous you're being to me," Breanna said, beaming. "You're not anything like how Father described you during the war—" she choked her words off, realizing she shouldn't have strayed into those waters. Numidia tilted her head.

"And how does your father know me, exactly?"

"By reputation only," Lydia cut in. "He heard tales of your ferocity through his fellow Legionnaires who were at Korvanjund with us."

"Ah yes, the Jagged Crown," Numidia said, and a shadow passed over her face. "That was a bloody day in the war. We can be glad that time is far behind us." She looked at Breanna. "I was just thinking about the Crown this morning, as it happens. Funny that it should it come up now. Tell me, my daughter, have you ever heard of the Miracle of Peace?"

"Oh yes!" Breanna exclaimed. "Kjoll told me all about it, since I'm a Breton. He called it the Warp in the West."

"Or a Dragon Break," Numidia said. "Years ago, when I first entered Markarth, I stopped a murder. Just seconds after one of the guards said that the city was the safest in Skyrim, I saw a man pull a blade and stalk up behind a woman in broad daylight, intent on her blood. I stopped him, though he made sure that he wasn't taken alive." She seemed to stare past Breanna as she spoke. "The strange thing is, sometimes my memories show me something different than what really happened. Sometimes, I see her body lying there dead at my feet instead of his. That somehow I wasn't quick enough to divine his intent and intervene. And when I think of the Jagged Crown, holding it in my hands, sometimes I have memories of placing in Ulfric's hands instead of Elisif's. At times the hands I see give it to him are not my own."

Numidia looked back up at Brenna. "It's as though there's a Warp in the West in my mind, forever showing me how things could have unfolded. And if the principles behind the breaks are to be believed, those things _did_ happen, in some avenue of time and existence that parallels our own."

"Is that because of your dragon blood, because of Akatosh?"

"He is the god of time," Numidia replied. "So, almost certainly. As I said, there was a point in my life when I…misused the powers that were given to me. I have cause to regret that, and the damage I caused either by accident or on purpose. And though I've tried to make amends, it is strange that I am sometimes faced with all the sins I could have committed in addition to those for which I'm guilty. It forces my concentration to find the best of all outcomes in my every action, whether knowing which opponent to strike first in combat, or that napkins and letters are the best lessons to teach on my children."

Breanna reached over and placed her hand on top of Numidia's. "And what do you see when you look at me, Mama?"

Numidia brightened, and the sun turned her dark brown hair a red-gold around the edges. "I see nothing, and you have no idea what a breath of fresh air that is to me. With you, I do not see the ways our meeting could go, it merely _is_." Numidia squeezed Breanna's small hand in hers. "But I can tell you that our meeting was not by chance. Some force has brought us together, and I believe it is for the good."

Breanna felt her breath leave his chest. _She was special to the Dragonborn_. They had known each other less than a day, but Breanna felt the connection there…and now knew her new mother reciprocated it. She was speechless before the living demi-goddess who smiled down her upon her like the morning sun overhead.

"Breathe, girl," Lydia told her. "You're turning red."

"Now, I think I shall meditate for a while," Numidia said. "The sunlight here seems to help me focus. The rest of the morning is yours to do with as you please, though I have a list of suggested reading titles if you want to get a head start on our lessons. This afternoon we begin your training in earnest, but fear not – we will walk those paths together."

Numidia got up and went to the porch's edge, and bent a knee into a prayer position. She tilted her face up towards the sun, and her arms went out to either side, palms turned skyward like flowers eager for the light.

"I don't even have the words," Breanna said, still reeling.

"A little over overwhelming, huh?" Lydia answered. "Yes, I thought so as well when I first met her. To know that she is truly _the_ Dragonborn, that she is fate and power made flesh, the storm and fire incarnate. There are times when she can seem so normal, and then she will turn around and do something worthy of the Poetic Edda. Turn the tide of the most hopeless battle, snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, stop a supposedly unstoppable foe…those are the times I realize how truly different she can be from us, and how lucky I am to have her in my life."

"I'm beginning to feel that, too," Breanna said.

"Her heart is wild, as wild and untamed as Skyrim herself. Her spirit is the grey stone, the flowering trees, the cracking ice, and the clouds which dance in the sky. Her song is whispered on the wind, sighed by the waterfall. Hers is the soul of the dragon, which could bend her into a most indomitable monster if unchecked. And yet, she is held back from the shadow by a single, slender thread."

"What's that?"

"Love," Lydia said, looking down upon her. "No mortal is fit to judge her actions, whether for good or evil. And yet it is her boundless capacity for love that makes her who she is. Love of Skyrim, of its people, love of her friends, her children, for me…"

Lydia rested her ebony gauntlet lightly on Breanna's shoulder.

"And now, for you."


	6. PART 6: ACT ON INSTINCT

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey, everybody! I've had to take a break from writing FF for a while, but I hope that I can start posting a little more often. I also have a new story thread called Legend of the Incarnates that takes place in the same Skyrim continuity as this story and Tales of the Valkyries. So, please check it out. At any rate, enjoy the ongoing saga of Breanna the Brave! ~SP]

PART 6: ACT ON INSTINCT

 _Sssss-thunk!_

Breanna frowned as she lowered her bow. The arrow quivered in the target, but outside the biggest ring. Another few inches and it would have missed completely. Aela's shadow passed over her. The Huntress made no noise when she walked.

"You hit the target this time," Aela said. "That's an improvement."

"Yeah, I guess," Breanna said, and couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice. She looked down at the practice bow — light though solid wood, easy to draw for someone her age. Her arrows were straight and true, though iron tipped. They were nothing like the magnificent work of art that Aela wore on her back, or for that matter the dragonscale armor that she wore helmetless so her copper-red hair fell around her shoulders.

"It's not your bow, if that's what you're thinking," the Huntress said. "A good bow can take you far, but it's only as good as the hand that holds it. You're coordinated, your stance is good, and your draw strength is surprisingly good… " Aela said as she considered the girl.

"Tell you what, nock an arrow for me, as quickly as you… just the way I showed you. Draw, but don't fire. Go."

Breanna drew an arrow from the quiver over her right shoulder while holding her bow laterally across her body. The nocks were bigger than normal, and flat. That part went well enough, so she drew the string back to her right cheekbone and sighted down the shaft.

"Hold," Aela called and leaned in to examine her posture. Tremors started first in her arms and then her shoulders.

"See the shot, imagine the arrow hitting dead-center. Adjust…adjust…that's it, now remember to aim slightly higher than where you intend to strike. Wait for that moment; you'll know it arrives. When it does, still your breath and then…release."

Brenna tried, but her arms where shaking too much to control. Her timing was off. The arrow hit the top of the target, this time solidly on the stripe of the outer ring.

Aela reminded Breanna of the Dragonborn when it came to teaching. Both of them were infinitely patient when the she made a host of beginner mistakes. And in this case, she had not improved her shots even under the Huntress' direct instruction.

"Hmmm…perhaps that is not your strength." Aela unslung her dragonbone bow and slid a wicked-looking bone arrow into place. The sinewy string barely creaked as she brought it back to full draw and immediately released. Breanna didn't even have to look; it was a clean bulls-eye.

"I use that when I'm on the hunt, the slow, measured shot to bring down a beast or a foe in a single arrow. But that usually only works when I'm concealed, when the target has no idea I'm there. But in a long fight, or a battle, I don't have the luxury of taking slow aim. When there are multiple targets in play, I use a technique I call 'The Mantikora.' Do you know what this?"

"Is that some kind of strange beast?"

"Yes," Aela confirmed. "It can fire spines from its tail fast as the wind, that strike harder than hailstones.I do that with my bow; I fire as fast as I can and at several different targets. Even if I don't put them down, perhaps I can slow them, cripple them, or even make them seek cover. Here, let me show you."

In the space it took for Breanna to draw one deep breath, Aela went to work. She fired at the three targets in front of her, pivoted in place towards another group, checked her range for other Companions, and finding none, let lose three more arrows at the various targets set along the back wall. Not all of them were bullseyes, but it was clear that she would have hit what she was aiming for. The precision, the confidence—it left Breanna dumbfounded.

"Now I want you to try it. Don't think, just draw and fire, as fast as you can. One arrow for each target. I'll call it."

Breanna swallowed and drew her first arrow, nocking it but keeping the arrowhead towards the ground.

"Relax," called Aela. "Breathe. Banish your expectations, of the shots and of yourself. Take the shots as they come. Trust your instincts."

Breanna closed her eyes and waited for the word to come.

 _"Now!"_

Breanna let fly with her first arrow, but did not wait to see where it had stuck. She was on to the next one, and then next. Pivoting in place she turned back towards her original set of targets and fired, fast as she could across those three.

As she let loose on the last target, a strange sound came from the target, like her arrow had struck stone. As she focused her vision on her last shot, she found that her ironhead had scraped along the side of Aela's bone arrow, joining it in the center of the target.

"Very good," Aela said. "Take a look at your other targets."

Breanna made a turn and her eyes widened at what she saw. Her second arrow had also split the center, even a shade closer to the middle than even Aela's arrow next to it. The rest were all well within the second ring on each target. Six for six, she had made a better showing of herself in that one round than the entire morning, or the last few days prior.

"As I thought," Aela continued. "You have a battle archer's instincts when you let go. The Legion wishes it had a thousand like you. The rest will come with practice and patience." Aela directed Breanna towards the shaded porch beneath the shadow of Jorrvaskr's heights. The huntress poured them both a mug of cool water from a skin.

The exertion of the morning had Breanna warm with sweat beading on her skin, and the water was a welcome relief.

"And how is our newest protégé doing?" a man in armor said as he took a seat next to Aela. _Vilkas._ He removed his gauntlets and laid them on the table. They bore stylized wolf skulls along each vambrance. Aela poured him a mug of water as well, which he accepted with a pleasant nod.

"Finding she has more potential than she first thought," Aela said with a friendly wink in Breanna's direction. The Huntress rarely smiled, but did a possess an understated humor that most might miss at first. Breanna found it endearing, much as she did Vilkas' roguish grin.

"When her time comes around, I've no doubt she'll attain a mastery most will find enviable."

"Let's hope she can say the same about mastery in armor and arms, when my time for instruction comes around. " Vilkas said. He reached for an apple on the table and shooed away a cluster of black flies, which buzzed away. "Worst part of Summer is the blasted flies on everything." One of the flies seemed to take umbrage at this and buzzed around his face, causing Vilkas to wave it away, annoyed, before taking a noisy bite of the apple.

The Companions seemed like good people to Breanna, and they were easy in each other's company with the familiarity of old friends. Her stay here was the first step in her training and education, per the Dragonborn's instructions.

"May I ask a question?" Breanna said. One had been burning in her mind since her vision of the Gates of Whiterun.

"You just did," Vilkas replied with that smile.

"Yeah, I guess I did. So, were you all here when...when the Stormcloaks came?"

"When the traitor Ulfric tried to take it, you mean?" Vilkas said. "Aye, we were here. In fact, a team of their elite tried to come over the wall right over there," he said, pointing to the back wall that formed the edge of the training yard. "I suppose they expected us to be on the walls with the other soldiers."

"They were mistaken," Aela finished for him. "We defended the Wind District from those trying to capture the Jarl from the inside, while Numidia held the front gate."

"Practically by herself," Vilkas said, lowly, almost in awe.

"She even called one of her dragonkin to our aid," Aela said." It gave us all a start when the shadow of its wings passed over us. Ulfric's host was in retreat within minutes, and routed within an hour."

Breanna remembered the rush of power she had felt, seeing the battle through the Dragonborn's eyes, at feeling the dragon heed her call.

"Snow-Hunter-Wing," Breanna said. "That was his name." As a child, it was rare to contribute something to the conversation the adults didn't already know, but looking up from her water, she saw that both Companions looked at her quietly.

"I did not know she had already started your instruction in Dovahzul," Aela said at length. "Though I would caution you not to lightly speak a dragon's name aloud in their native tongue. You never know when they might hear you."

"But, I—" Breanna started, then stopped. She had said those three words of the dragon's name in the common tongue.

Hadn't she?

"Alright, I will remember." Breanna's eyes lowered, then raised back to the huntress. "Does that include dragons who are already dead?"

Vilkas swatted at a trio of flies that flitted around his face, "No, that's fine, I think. Every time Numidia is introduced at court, Alduin is always mentioned. If we dare say the name of the World-Eater, the rest of the slain should be equally powerless." His handsome face frowned at the tenacity of the little pests annoying him.

"Then can you tell me the name of the dragon who gave you those?" Breanna asked, motioned towards Aela's magnificent bow and armor. Aela's green eyes traced the lines of the bow she had placed on the table, just within arm's reach, taking in its every etching, its deadly, sinuous curves. The weapon was a work of art, made by a master craftsman. It seemed to possess an inner radiance that Breanna only caught out of the corner of her eye.

"Ysmir, Dragon of the North, gave this to me," Aela said with an odd note in her voice at the name. "But that's probably not what you meant. The bones were from Mirmulnir, whom she met at the Western Watchtower. The wyrm did not donate them willingly."

Breanna regarded the huntress with questions buzzing around in her head like those flies. As they often did, things aligned in her mind, giving way to insights. Though often cool and aloof, at that moment Breanna saw the magnificent woman before her as a mountain stream. The waters ran swift and untamed, swirling and frothy, even defiant, of the banks of the world that sought to define her. But below that shimming clear surface, she saw the river stones of the huntress' soul that lay beneath. A deep well of strength sat at Aela's core, but there was gnawing loneliness there, too, which at times could nearly paralyze her. She fought, she killed, because that's who she was, but even the thrill of the hunt had not been the same since...

"You love her, don't you?" Breanna said, realizing that she had asked the question aloud. A look passed between Vilkas and Aela, and they were both suddenly silent.

"All who count the Dragonborn as an ally love her," Aela said, with a sip from her mug. The woman hovered at the edge of leaving it at that, but then Breanna saw the shift within her, and she continued. "We were close once, closer than I had been to anyone in a long time. Even then I could sense her heart was wild, as untamed as Skyrim itself, even before she knew about her destiny. I was drawn to her flame, and coveted it for my own. It was not to be."

"She broke your heart," Breanna said, and immediately regretted it. Aela's pale green eyes narrowed at her, but a deep pain reflected in them that Breanna guessed few had ever suspected, and even fewer had ever glimpsed.

" _Breanna!_ " Vilkas scolded, pointing a finger, which turned into a shooing gesture at his tiny winged oppressors.

"No, it's all right," Aela said, holding up her hand. "It is true. I hoped I could kindle her wild soul, stoke its fires, and hoard them for my own. But she is, at times, painfully Imperial." A shadow of a smile appeared on her lips, but then disappeared like a wave on the sea. "Understand, she is still my battle-sister, as is Lydia. If either of them asked, I would gladly storm the very gates of Oblivion with them." There was no boasting with Aela, Breanna knew. The huntress was taciturn, and preferred to act rather than speak, which is why her words wrung at Breanna's very heart. How many others harbored a secret fire for the woman who undeniably stood at the very apex of fate? How many others loved her from afar as Breanna had?

"I count myself as blessed that she trusts me with her sons and daughters," Aela continued. "I know that she prizes her family above all other concerns."

"And the Companions are part of that family, lucky for us," Vilkas said, then frowned. "Confound these little—"

In one swift motion, Breanna picked up an eating knife from the table and threw it in Vilkas' direction, barely conscious doing so until the blade was already whistling end-over-end through the air. It's passing was close enough that it ruffled the hair at Vilkas' left temple. The blade pierced the thick wooden post behind Vilkas, with a solid _thunk!_

Breanna stared at her outstretched arm as though it belonged to someone else. Her face was suddenly stricken, and cold acid wormed in her stomach. Everyone froze until Vilkas blinked away his disbelief and stood up. Aela joined him. They both examined the knife, and their heads slowly tracked towards the little girl.

"She cut one of them in half," Vilkas said in shock. "And another is pinned beneath the point. Impossible."

"I'm sorry!" Breanna cried, holding her hands up to her face. Her eyes burned. "I didn't mean—" Words failed her and she ran into the great mead hall, streaming tears, moving past the restored axe Wuuthrad near the staircase, until she collapsed onto her bed and wept into her pillow.

 _I'm such a freak, a danger to everyone..._ Her thoughts were a self-scourge, and they did not relent. A thousand scenarios flashed in her mind, where the knife had not found the tiny fly, but Vilkas' eye or throat. The images were so vivid that for a time she lost herself to them, unable to determine which scenario had actually played out. At length she had cried all the tears she could, and felt gentle fingers stroking her hair. She turned to find Aela sitting on the edge of Breanna's bed.

"You judge yourself harshly," Aela began. "Too harshly, from the looks of it. Vilkas is all right. A little startled, but he's a trained warrior and a Companion. He's had close calls too many times to count. You did him no harm." Aela had no children of her own, but just then the older woman seemed infinitely maternal. Hers was not a love of grand words and gestures, but of simple, caring deeds, each laden with quiet love. _I see why the Dragonborn was drawn to her_ , a small voice in her head told her.

"But I _could_ have," Breanna replied in a small, miserable voice. "I just wanted him to be free of those flies and...it just sort of happened."

Aela nodded, "And this isn't the first time this has happened, is it?"

"No," Breanna said. "I once threw an axe without thinking about it. I just _wanted_ it to happen, and it did. I can't explain it."

"Then perhaps you are not meant to," Aela said, and Breanna looked up at her mentor with questioning eyes. "I have trained all of the Dragon's Children in the bow, and the crafts and lore of the wilderness. Some took to it like a bird to flight, like little Sophie. Others, like Alesan took much longer, though he proved a much faster study with Vilkas' lessons in the greatsword. You see, Breanna, it is the duty of the teacher to find the hidden strengths in their students and train them to hone those gifts to a fine razor's edge. All of your brothers and sisters have found that strength in their own time. You are quite different from them, however."

"I know," Breanna admitted, and her heart was heavy in her chest. "But I don't know why. Mother said she would help me find out why I'm different, but she had to leave."

"There may be no easy answers, prepare yourself for that," Aela said. "Even one as wise as the Dragonborn may not be able to unravel your mystery with any haste. But in the meantime, we have accidentally uncovered one of your hidden strengths. You fear it because you cannot control it, because it could go awry, and bring harm against those who do not deserve it. I know this fear all too well."

Aela's rough callused hand took Breanna's small one with surprising gentleness, and held that contact fast. "And that is the best reason why you should explore this new strength. Delve its depths. Explore its boundaries. Master it, and with it the fear. It may not be the answer you truly want, but it may suffice to put your heart to ease." She looked directly into the girl's eyes. "Will you at least try, Breanna?"

The queasiness surged within Breanna again, like a storm cloud in her belly, but the words of the huntress struck home as keen as any arrow. Nothing scared Breanna in the usual sense. Monsters, danger, even Daedric Princes did not terrify her in the slightest...but the fear of disappointing or harming those whom she cared about seemed to sidestep around that strange bulwark in her mind. Perhaps the best way to confront this singular fear was to face it directly.

"Okay, I will do it." Breanna said. "Will you help me find my way?"

Aela leaned down and kissed the girl lightly on the forehead, then swept from the room without another word. Breanna climbed into bed early that day. She instinctively knew she would need the rest.

They began the next morning, when the sun just a yellow-orange glow in the east. First came the bow. This time, every round was a Mantikora. Breanna fired as fast as she could, sometimes with barely a glance at the target. Her shots were true more often than not. As day wore on, Farkas brought out a set of throwing axes, and she switched to them.

Her first three attempts left something to be desired, with one axe sailing out of control and clearing Farkas's head by only a hand's breadth. Her fourth attempt found the wood, and the sharp moon-shaped axehead bit deep into the target. After that, she stuck three out of five, and her accuracy only increased as she let her mind slip into a calm, present state. The greater this state, the greater her skill seemed to grow.

Without taking a break, they switched to throwing knives. This time she _started_ at three out of every five, and by noon, each brace of five knives would find themselves clustered tightly around the target's heart. Now she could feel when she was in this 'nothing state' and found her way back there more easily. Aela blindfolded the girl and she continued to stick knives into the wooden targets with the same adroitness as when she could see clearly. At times, it was as though she could see with her eyes closed. Strangely, sometimes it seemed she saw _more_ clearly with her eyes closed than when they were open.

Though tired, and sweaty, and worn out, Aela's lessons continued. In the late afternoon, Aela produced a set of wooden practice swords and had the Companions joined her in the training yard. They surrounded the girl in a circle. They came at her singly at first, then in pairs, and trios. Breanna took a battering, and was glad of her padded practice armor. Still, she would be bruised come the morning.

And finally as the sun dipped low into the western sky, Aela put the blindfold back over Breanna's eyes, and they resumed their place in the melee circle. This time Breanna had armed herself with two short wooden swords.

"Begin," she heard Aela's voice say. A swift wind swept across the back of Breanna's neck, and she knew that Njada was coming for her. She ducked under the swipe, and turned away from Vilkas' downward chop. She kicked out with her foot at the same time she brought one of her swords down on where she believed his wrist was. A surprised grunt answered her. Simultaneously, she brought up her other sword to parry Athis, then swept his guard away.

A dodge became a parry, a parry became a strike. A few times, she felt one of her opponents' strike home, one (which she suspected was Aela herself) struck her in the stomach, and all the breath went out of her. Despite this, the girl went into a forward roll, and came up, lashing out at her attacker. Something in her told her that she should keep moving, keep maneuvering and placing blow wherever possible. And when she did this, the blows she received became fewer in number. The oddest thing was that, no matter how many times she spun around or sidestepped, she never collided with any of the Companions bodily. They pressed her again, and a punitive stroke rang off her helmet. Despite her exhaustion, or her legs which had nearly turned to jelly, Breanna made her stand until at last the blows tapered off.

"Hold," she heard Aela say. Breanna lifted the blindfold that by now was gritty with sand and soaked with the sweat of her brow. The looks on the Companions' faces confused her. She had thought they might be upset, but they weren't. Even Vilkas, who stood nursing his wrist and rotating it in place, was beaming.

"Well done," Aela said, laying a hand on her shoulder, and her green eyes glowed like torches in the evening. "What you just did...well, there are blooded Companions present here, tried and true, that could not have done what you just did. You were a whirlwind, and a glorious one at that."

"Um, really?" Breanna said, now almost embarrassed.

"Truly," Farkas said, slightly favoring his left knee. "For such a little squirt, you swing like a grown up. If you fight like this at eight—"

"I'm ten," Breanna corrected gently.

"At _ten_ , then...you're going to be spectacular at twenty. Count on that."

They all settled to the benches and tables beneath the eaves, and the Companions toasted in her honor. Breanna herself drank apple juice, and tucked into a plate of cooked beef, bread, and cheeses with abandon. She was ravenous. Aela settled into a bench next to her, a frothy mug in her hand.

"Most of the time, Numidia insists on her children spending at least a year or two here at Jorrvaskr to learn the basics. There's still much we can teach you, but what you proved today tells me you will likely move on come winter. On the one hand, that is good, as you can move on to the next tier of your education. Yet it also means the time you and I have together will be short."

"I'll come back to visit when I can," Breanna said, but doubt clouded her mind even as the words left her mouth. It had been two months already since she had left her farm, and she had not had the chance to go back and visit Father. Would it be the same with Aela and the other Companions, too?

"I hope you will come to think of Jorrvaskr as a kind of second home," Aela said, looking out at the festive air that had taken hold of the assembled host. "And I think that if you wished it, that display alone would secure your entry as a full Companion, even at your young age."

Breanna's cheekbones burned. She didn't know what to say.

"Regardless of which way the wheel turns, I do hope you find the answers you seek, Breanna," Aela said, breaking the silence. "And for your sake, I hope they are answers you can live with."

The smile she flashed just then was at odds with ominous tone of her words, and Aela stood and went to rejoin her fellow Companions in song, in merriment, and when Masser and Secundus graced the sky, in dance.

The rest of the summer passed, until the chill winds of autumn came with the turning of the leaves. Breanna continued to improve under Aela's expert tutelage, until the sword and bow sang in her hands without using the nothing state. And in those times when she used the blank mind technique, she found it much improved as well. By the time the snows of winter came, she felt stronger, more sure of herself. Her limbs had firmed and she had grown a bit. She saw Lydia and the Dragonborn in passing, and their reunions were always joyous. But Skyrim needed their greatest champions in the field, and they could never tarry for long.

Near the end of Evening Star, with the new year approaching, Lydia appeared one day at the doors of Jorrvaskr. She did not remove her cloak, and placed her helmet in the crook of her arm. Without being told, Breanna read that her time in Whiterun was at an end.

"Go and gather your things, little one," The Dragon's Heart said to her. "Though not quite so little as our last meeting, I see. I've heard great things from Aela about your progress."

"But where are we going?"

"To the next step in your education," Lydia replied. "We ride for Solitude. There you will learn at the Bard's College, and live at with us at Proudspire Manor." A wry glint was in her eye.

" _Us_?" Breanna said. "You mean—"

"Yes," Lydia finished her thought for her. "Proudspire is _her_ house, the one she visits most often."

Breanna was off like an arrow in flight. Many of the Companions were gone, out doing honest hired work, so there were few she could tell good-bye. Aela was nowhere to be found. As Breanna and Lydia departed from the mead hall, Breanna chanced a look back.

There, on the steps, she saw Aela the Huntress, resplendent and powerful in her armor. Slowly the woman raised her dragonbone bow high in salute, holding it there until her face was little more fiery red dot in the distance. Then the cold winds picked up, stinging Breanna's eyes, and she could see her no more.


End file.
